The Starling

My dearest Eleanor, I hope this letter finds you well wherever you may be on the Atlantic.

Or perhaps you have sailed out of its bounds entirely and made your way to seas unknown.

I can only imagine it, and I do imagine it quite often.

In my dreams, I see you standing upon the decks of a great schooner, its hull painted yellow, its sails red and blue.

I think of you high in the rigging, a spyglass to your eye as you search for fellow sailors.

I imagine you holding a torch, exploring the dark hold of some frightening vessel filled with mystery.

No matter the adventure, your eyes are bright with laughter, as they always are.

You are calling to me and beckoning me home.

For what is home if it is not you? Of course, this dream is not real.

I am a woman.

I would never be allowed on such a boat.

You must conceal your identity to be allowed to walk the decks in the first place.

It is a perilous endeavor, but you are the bravest soul I have ever known, and if you cannot accomplish such a feat, then no one living has a single hope.

I pray you are well, and that your secret has stayed safely concealed these past few months.

You may notice that I write to you from a new address.

No longer am I confined to New Bern.

Father has brought me to Bath.

The plan is for us to remain here throughout the fall.

I must confess, I did not wish to come.

I have been more out of sorts than ever since you left.

During the day, I can barely walk the street from one end to the other without the necessity of prolonged rest.

Then at night it is just the opposite.

I cannot find my way to sleep, no matter how intently I set my mind to the matter.

The latest doctor told Father I was being obstinate, that I was not trying hard enough to heal myself with thought and prayer.

The man suggested that Father free me from the city and take me somewhere quiet near the water.