Fan Mail, Part 4

Arabella needed the height. Most days, she preferred to move with poise through the main spaces—lobbies, banquet halls, terraces, wherever the air was thick with guests and expectation. But this morning, well before the island’s better half had even stirred, she took to the highest balcony, a place built for herself alone, on the far side of the volcano, hidden to the view of the resort and its guests. It was bare except for an iron table and two matching chairs. The volcano’s crown loomed close enough to blot out the eastern sky, and the drop on the other side was a clean, vertiginous cut to the reef a hundred meters below.

She sat, legs crossed at the ankle, and set her day’s correspondence in front of her. Three envelopes, each heavier than the last. The first two were sealed with wax the color of dried blood, the third a simple cream stock embossed with the name of a season she had heard about. She aligned them by width, then by the tilt of the address, the ritual comforting in its precision.

The wind here was briny and so relentless that it could strip a scarf from your neck, but Arabella’s hair was so perfectly arranged that even the mistral would have hesitated. Her dress was a simple bias-cut in mourning violet, the kind of garment that could look funereal or festive depending on the tilt of a Host’s smile. She wore no jewelry yet. It was not yet the time for show.

The first envelope was scented with actual rose oil—Shar’s doing, no doubt—and tucked with it, delivered by an invisible servant, was a basket of what looked like wild roses and a tall, wax-dipped bottle of mead. She opened the envelope with a single, surgical flick, and let the letter fall into her palm. Shar’s handwriting was unmistakable: impatient, a little slanted, each word as though it had been barked through a fence at a neighbor’s unruly dog.

Arabella read:

Arabella-

Very interesting new season. Going a bit heavy handed trying to break the girls this early on, but most seem to be adapting well. I am not particularly happy to see Sam's inclusion in a male's harem, but she seems smart enough to dodge the usual pitfalls and he cares for his friend so perhaps all will be well. If not, perhaps an arrangement can be made.

- Shar

Arabella winced at the mention of ‘the usual pitfalls.’ She’d seen the 1983 tapes. Even she had found them excessive.

Arabella set the letter down, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the basket. She took a single wild rose, sniffed it: bitter, not the usual cloying tea hybrid, but a real old-fashioned bloom, with undertones of soil and bruised green. She placed it on the table.

Her right hand lingered on the envelope, feeling the raised edge of the wax. There was no reaction—no frown, no sigh—but her left hand found the table’s edge, pressing hard enough to leave a crescent in her palm. Only then did she look up, to the ocean, and let the wind draw the sting from her eyes.

She looked out, measuring the horizon, as if she could see Shar’s castle or the cathedral where the mead had been blessed. She thought about Sam, about the way the girl’s posture had shifted in only a week. Shar severely underestimated Sam’s spirit, perhaps. Or Andy’s. There were still plenty of surprises to be found, after all. Arabella exhaled, reset her face, and turned to the next envelope.

The second envelope was thinner, lighter, edged in the faintest lavender, and Arabella did not need to read the return address to know its sender. The script on the front—fluent, every capital letter curling inward like a beckoning finger—was as familiar as her own pulse. She opened it with uncharacteristic slowness, peeling the flap without tearing. The paper inside was thick but soft, and the scent was different: violets and something a little green, like the air after a spring rain. She ran her finger along the top edge before reading.

I am delighted to see that you are still around and you seem to have grown into your role quite well. I have come to find that things are run very differently these days and would love to talk about how you have adapted. Be not a stranger,

Your sister,

Nimue

Arabella read the letter twice, then three times, the words lingering in her as a warmth she didn’t often permit. Her shoulders softened. She let her hands rest on the page, thumbs smoothing out invisible creases, as if to reassure herself that the letter was not some trick of the wind.

She looked out over the ocean, at the slice of horizon where the sun was just beginning to thread through the haze, and for the first time that day, allowed herself a genuine, unguarded smile. The poppy fields were a world away, of course, and the chances of her leaving the island before season’s end were less than slim. But the offer, even as a fantasy, was enough to lift the weight from her chest.

She folded the letter along its original crease, set it square on the table, and placed the envelope back on top. This one she would answer herself, and she made a silent promise to do so before the next day’s work began. Perhaps with a pressed flower.

She lingered, staring at the water and the far-off specks of fishing boats, letting the memory of Nimue’s voice fill the silence. Then, with a small shake, she reclaimed her posture—the precise lines of spine and jaw that marked her as Host—and reached for the final envelope.

The final envelope had arrived with its own heraldry: a wooden crate lined with green tissue, brimming with fruit so rare it was illegal in half the world’s customs offices. Arabella had seen the crate on her way up and had the bellhop stack it by the balcony’s door, a silent promise to herself that she would savor the indulgence after the hard work of reading.

Now, she slit the packing tape with a thumbnail and opened the lid. The scent was immediate and overwhelming: starfruit, passionfruit, and, at the very bottom, a single durian wrapped in cheesecloth. Arabella smiled, knowing exactly who had sent it.

Lucian Medici had seemed a sucker for extravagant gesture. She found the letter inside the lid, printed in black ink.

Dear Arabella,

Congratulations on your new season and your continued success. As a veteran, I’m sure you need no encouragement, but I wish you well on your first challenge. They always seem to set the tone for things to come. I must say, while I was unable to review any of your earlier work, I am quite impressed with your ability to keep your cast in line with a smile on your face. The fear of god is in all of them, and they don’t even know what they are truly afraid of yet. You are rather gentle with your Master, a sentiment I cannot endorse, but frankly, it seems he gets in his own way enough without prodding. Also, masterful work on the transformations, I must say I am inspired for my own next round and how to push my own cast out of their comfort zones. There are demons in hell that could learn a trick or two from you. Attached, you will find a fruit basket curated by my assistant, Reyna. I hope you find it to your liking. Be mindful of the Durian, as I am told it is an acquired taste. I wish you well in the trials to come. Humanity is such a pestilence, and I hope they do little to interfere with your plans.

Grazie tante,

Lucian Medici

Arabella read the letter twice, then folded it precisely, running a nail along the crease. She liked Lucian’s compliments; she liked even more that he disguised them as professional detachment. She was tempted to send him a crate of his own, filled with overripe lychees and a note that she’d never lost her edge, only sharpened it to a point that cut without leaving blood.

She placed the letter on the table beside Nimue’s, then removed the durian from the crate. Even double-wrapped, it released a sulfurous tang that overpowered the wind. Arabella held it in both hands, appreciating the weight and the spiny texture, and set it gently by her elbow.

She glanced at the other fruits—starfruit gleaming like lacquered gold, mangosteen with skins that bled purple when pressed. She considered peeling one and eating it right then, but the day was young and she preferred anticipation.

Instead, she pressed both palms against the stone tabletop, leaned back, and let the wind scour away the last residues of memory and regret. She looked out over the sea, at the morning light now fully ablaze, and felt, for a moment, neither Host nor vessel nor performer: just a woman with a basket of good things and a world to run.

She stood, gathering her envelopes and the rose, the durian balanced under one arm. She straightened her dress, smoothed her hair, and checked the horizon for any sign of oncoming weather. There was none, of course.

As she turned to go, she hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and smiled. Not the Host’s smile. Her own. It was a small, private rebellion, meant for no one but herself and the empty balcony.

Then she was gone, her footsteps fading into the stairwell, the only evidence of her passage the faint trace of violet perfume and the smell of distant, impossible fruit.