The envelope was once a brilliant white, that much was certain. Between the smudges of grey-green, the thumbprints and the grime, there was the white. Like whispers. The edges were worn and crinkled, corners bent and beaten. How far this small package had traveled! The seal was the purest part, the wax untouched.

At last it was at its end, and if envelopes could feel, surely this one was weary and eager.

Slipped beneath the door by an attendant, perhaps during the daylight hours - one could never really know, the envelope lay in waiting at the floor.

Inside, the pages kept their radiance, covered in ink marred only by tearstains and the penmanship of a trembling hand.


Gideon.

I am in France. A vineyard. The smell of grapes fills my head.

I wanted to tell you that I flew away because I did not know what else to do. It was as if an invisible hand took my wrist, latched on and pulled. I think that I thought it was Landon, Gideon. I think that I thought he was guiding me back to him.

You know, before I met you, I didn't believe in ghosts. Now they are all that I see. Now I have trouble swallowing mortality. Death is like stale and molded bread - I cannot stomach it.

I think that perhaps I have been truly mad, Gideon. I have spoken to imperfections in the stone of the walls, I have cradled flowers whose stems have been broken by birds. I have lived off of the blood of animals and this has broken my heart. I have buried every animal I have taken for my nourishment and I have remembered it fondly, as if it were kin.

Gideon, I am filthy. My fingernails carry dirt beneath them, my skin is pale and only washed in the rain. I have realized a hollowness inside of me. Do you know what it is? He has blue eyes and looks like a prince. His teeth are razors and his hands chill in such a way that it is like warmth, he is a paradox of a man.

I knew that you would be safe with the Ogden boy. Your romance with mortality seemed a safe harbor for you. I have come to accept what I am, Gideon. In the last few hours I have poured wine down my own throat to numb the flesh there, to feel the ache in my belly and then to coat the agony with human blood. She was a small thing, Gideon. Innocent. She was no rapist, no thief, no liar. I did not let her die, but the maidenhead of my existence has truly been pierced for me.

I have realized that my mortal life has become irrelevant. I believed for so long that Landon was the greatest love I had ever known. Oh, Gideon, it took these months to know the truth. It took this - the filth, the pain, the starvation.

I can love no other but you.

But how changed I am. I think of the way I once was, awkward and silent, and I laugh broken laughter to myself. I still would not break the neck of a swallow for pleasure, but my spirit has shifted.

When the morning is coming, I think of leaving this storehouse and throwing myself to the rays. I think of what burning would feel like, how the flames would curl within my veins and end me. And then I smell the grapes, and it reminds me of the wine you touch to your lips while you are laughing. I think of the night we first made love and I can very nearly smell roses.

I suppose I am writing to you because I am afraid you think that I left you. I wonder if you are still with Everett, if you still chastise Erin between debonair smiles, if Cassie still bathes in your favor between alcohol and bedsheets.

I do miss you terribly. It is warm here. The vines are pregnant.

I don't know how long it will take this letter to reach you. It is June, now, and there is life all around me. I do not know whether it is a comfort or a sickness.



All of my love that is left,
Illiana