After being confined to my bed in excruciating pain for the entirety of yesterday (from before breakfast until eleven at night!) I have finally produced a darling and from all appearances quite healthy baby boy, whom we have called Nicholas Cian (after my father and father-in-law; I admit I am relieved to have the first name for my choosing as Cian sounds too Irish for my ears).
The last few weeks have been something I would not have wished on even my direst enemy, so I now admit that I am quite understanding of your proclivity to never marry or bear children — all that to say, little Nicholas is quite delightful and I hope you have to the chance to meet him soon. I expect I shall be on bedrest for several days still, but don't let that put you off visiting if you are inclined and available; I shan't be troubled about my unbrushed hair if you shan't.
I've finally done it, but having done it I must admit I am in awe of you having already done so twice. And you so dainty and delicate, always, it is a wonder the thing didn't kill you! How did you manage it? I'm sure we must have talked of this before but having not been through it myself I couldn't possibly have understood, and now that I can you must tell me everything so that we can commiserate on the terrible lot we wives have.
After all is said and done, however, the baby is here. A boy, whom we've called Nicholas Cian (I am fortunate in my choice of husband; his traditional family names are merely Irish and not quite so strange to the ears as the Malfoy's!)
I am still recovering but would love to see you at any convenient time — though do please leave the boys at home until I am officially open to receiving guests as I will be quite a mess in the meantime.
I do not envy you in the slightest, but nevertheless I can freely confess how happy I am for you. I must protest that there is no such thing as too Irish a name (as I'm sure your husband would agree) but even better, little Nicholas has the fortune to have been born just a mere day before I was! (I'd say this bodes tremendously well for his character, but here I suspect your husband would not agree.)
Anyway, I'm glad he's well and that you've survived, and I'd never mind your hair being in any state - indeed, I would be your friend if you had no hair - although, having been stuck as a wren for the best part of the month, nor have I any right whatsoever to criticise anyone's appearance, when I am now more used to having feathers.*
Phyri
P.S. If that Witch Weekly advertisement was your doing, dear little Nicholas might be growing up motherless.
*is she still a wren at this point? welp, that is to be seen!
I'm afraid I shall have to revoke your invitation if you insist upon threatening me with murder. There's no need for such dramatics. If you're getting letters from anyone undesireable, simply stop answering them. (But if you do happen to meet a kindred soul, well, perhaps a bit of the credit will be mine — but I admit to nothing now).
Your comment about the feathers makes me believe you have had some misadventure lately which you might regale me with; please visit soon and tell me how you've been.
As though you could ever be an imposition! Never; I am longing to see you. I hope the strange events of yesterday have not affected you in any way? I think we are all in the same state over here, but a few of our servants had the strangest things happen to them.
I shall reserve the threats for my visit, then. I did have to stop answering one to make myself clear, which was almost a shame, for I might have found worse gifts to send - but on the other hand, I am making a nice writing exercise of the other: some dramatic monologuing, if you like. I am sure the poor girl knows it folly, but who can say, with Witch Weekly’s usual readership? In any case, I suppose I might thank you after all, for I am nearly having fun.
I shall tell you more of my own misadventures in person, though you mustn’t be troubled by my appearance, either.