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Poppy Dashwood · June 28, 2024 – 10:13 PM

January 15, 1894 - Paris, France

Poppy still wasn't sure how she was supposed to move on after the loss of her sister. It had been over six months already and there were still days when the grief was so strong it was utterly overwhelming, when the reminder of some small trinket or scent would bring back memories and just-- Laurel. Those were the days she'd be out of sorts for hours with no enticement of food, beverage or adventure able to rouse the miserable brunette from her sullenness. It was on one such day as she was strolling through a market with Aunt Viola that they came across a basket full to bursting of sunflowers. They were out of season, making the coincidence all the more striking. The yellow was vibrant and radiant as the sun, each petal a symbol of life. Laurel had loved sunflowers for that very reason, had even carried around a blanket as a child with the pattern embroidered on the front. Poppy felt tears sting in the corner of her eyes even as she purchased one and asked to head back to their temporary lodgings.

The walk back was silent, Aunt Viola all too aware of the frequent bouts to be blind to what was happening. In her room with the door shut, Poppy settled the pretty flower in the windowsill and huddled on the bench there, staring at it blankly with a woolen blanket over her shoulders. It itched terribly but hid her cascade of waterworks well enough. When the first display passed and Poppy felt herself calm, she leaned against the sill and sniffled into her elbow. If only there was someone she could talk to... But just the thought of discussing her sister with June, or Victoire or even Ida-- all of whom did not feel nearly so close to their siblings as she had, felt too indulgent. Deciding instead to be a little bit reckless, out of spite to the world for taking Laurel from her and a faint feeling of missing him anyway, Poppy pulled out a quill and some parchment. There was only one friend who might possibly manage to indulge her without fear of a pitying response or his saving her messy feelings for anyone else to see...

Kris,
Kristoffer,

I don't know even how to start this poor excuse for a communication between us, not after all the time that has elapsed, except to ask that perhaps you indulge me just this one ramble. We are friends, are we not? Despite time, space, and all manner of distance?

I have tried to keep my peace and silence these past weeks, letting all sentiment ebb away as I support my mother and brother but there are days where it's all too much, even for me. Kristoffer, I don't know how else to rid myself of these sentiments save to pour them all out onto a page and make a complete mess of things. It is horrendous walking along the Rue Parieisnne, the very one I've always desired to experience some day, and think only of how Laurel might have squealed at the rat that skittered by-- or to pass an evening at the great Palais Garnier and think only of how my sister would have enjoyed the current set at the ballet in London more than this one...

We saw a bouquet of sunflowers today, strolling along the market square. I am ashamed to say that I all but burst into tears at the sight and, in a moment of weakness purchased one to bring home and stare at-- endlessly. Please take it, burn it, keep it, do whatever you will with it but let me pass it to you -- my dear Kristoffer -- to keep the memories at bay.

[a break, and some wet marks staining the page]

As I settle into this letter, I find myself feeling a bit better just at the notion that you might pick this up one day soon and think me so ridiculously silly. Yes, even a woman as strong and independent as I (a jest, really) has her moments of weakness. But sobering now, I fear not exposing these thoughts to you. Your support - however derisive - is a small comfort. So scoff, and frown, and pretend to be as utterly unimpressed by this as you are the mud on your boots. I appreciate even the indulgence.

Now that I have managed to stop blubbering and this letter has served its purpose, I wonder if I will be brave enough to actually post it. If I am, will you promise me to pretend as if all is normal? I cannot stand the idea of pity. Not from you, dear Mr. Lestrange.

Appreciate your sisters while you still have them by your side, and pass along whatever best wishes you might to those you hold dear.

always gratefully yours,
Poppy

[Attached is the sunflower pressed by magic into something resembling a bookmark.]

Kristoffer Lestrange & thier muse song (it's so them in my head ugh)

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Elias Grimstone

Kristoffer Lestrange · July 6, 2024 – 1:01 AM

16th January, 1894

Miss Dashwood,

You don’t need my permission to indulge in a ramble – clearly you already have, whether I wanted to receive it or not. I’m not surprised at all. And I assure you I’m not indulging you by answering. Why should I be sorry for you? Do you think you are the only person to lose someone? It was your choice to run away from everything, as if that would help. You could have wallowed in misery just as well here. Did you think of anyone

I suppose you didn’t think of me before you

You only write now that you need me

You call this friends? I don’t want to be your friend, what good does being your friend do me, especially when you’re not here

Who else do you think I hold dear if not

Have you been writing in the rain, or do I have to tell you to stop crying for two minutes? I can barely read your letter.

I would, however, trade one or two of my sisters for you to have yours back. Don’t think I’m being generous or insincere about it. I would do as much for free. (Meta is more trouble than she will ever be worth.)

But you’re in Paris right now, and you call that a punishment. How much longer are you staying?

K.

P. S. In return for what you sent: I have enclosed a bit of pressed mud from London, peeled from my boots, so you can picture just how impressed I am. I am sure you miss my friendship dreadfully.

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Poppy Dashwood

Poppy Dashwood · July 6, 2024 – 6:00 AM

January 16, 1894 - Paris, France

When the owl flew through her window, or rather pecked at the curiously quant little shutters to be let in, Poppy was as surprised as she’d been to have sent her own missive. It had been a heavily deliberated event, one she wavered on even as she released the borrowed creature into the air, but in the end she was glad to have sent it. Even if he didn’t reply, even if he didn’t care— it was something to her just to have his ear for the fraction of a moment that it would count. (Besides, Poppy had a pretty solid foundation to think that he would at least read it, even if he didn’t deign to do anything about her rambling mess.) —and that provided solace and satisfaction enough.

Upon actual receipt of a reply however, she unfolded the scrap of parchment and devoured it once, twice and then a third time. By the end, Poppy was so relieved by the familiarity of it - of him - that she couldn’t help but laugh as her eyes watered in appreciation. The response was quick to flow from her quill.

Mr. Lestrange,

You are right. I am certainly not the first, nor will I be the last, to lose someone close and the thought gives me great heartache. I can only hope that you yourself never have to experience such a thing and that if you do, or if you have, that there may be a reliable shoulder to lean upon— one that can remind you of your folly for thinking yourself singular.

(I am, myself, happy to step in should you need it.)

Are you very cross with me for leaving? We had hoped this little excursion would alleviate some of the stress of things, particularly those relative to the season. You know better than most how desperately I have wished to travel and experience the world! But I dare to admit, only to you and only in greatest confidence, it is not all I had hoped it to be— Paris, Italy, Spain… it is not nearly so exciting while tinged miserably by the shadow of a tragedy. I must come again, and under lighter circumstances. Only then will I be able to boast the adventure I’ve sought all these years! In the meantime, I hope you can forgive me. My spirits too remain in England.

It has been rather wet here, you’re right. I shall take greater pains to write inside next time, but only because you’ve pointed it out so gallantly.

Jest aside— you mustn’t say such things about your sisters! In the end, family is all we have - truly - because every and anyone else can vanish in a moment.

We will be in Paris another fortnight and then off to Italy. At least the lodgings are rather charming. Aunt Viola has a cousin who has taken us in and the vacinity is superb! I’ve taken to stealing out in the earliest hours of morning, before anyone is awake, to stroll along the cobbled streets. Only the bakers and couriers are bustling at that time and I’ve made friends with a young boy, Jean, who shares an extra baguette with me in the dark. (I shall send you some of the delicacies I’ve found here in my next letter, if there is to be one. Paris has a delightful assortment of sweets, I must say.)

yours,
Poppy

P.S.

I do miss you, terribly. If there had been a way to bring anyone And I appreciate your answer more than you know, even if it’s not an indulgence.

As for the dirt, I suppose I shall transfigure it into a small Tour Eiffel - adding, of course, equally impressive mud from the banks of the Seine - and send it back. Keep it for me.

Kristoffer Lestrange & thier muse song (it's so them in my head ugh)

Kristoffer Lestrange · July 31, 2024 – 8:34 PM

The nerve of her, writing to him – using him when she needed him, and probably having a delightful time off prancing around Europe and just pretending to be miserable when she remembered him. The more charming she was, the angrier he was at her. Was he cross at her for leaving? No. No, she could bloody well do whatever she liked, it was nothing to him.

Paris, Italy, Spain. She would go romping around there and be seduced by some foreigner and forget her grief, probably never come back. And what did he have? His family? So fucking fortunate. No, she had sent back his piece of mud, charming into a souvenir, and she was threatening to send him French sweets and delicacies. He didn’t want her keep up this habit of writing to him, to be penpals, as if he were a diary for all her darkest thoughts. He missed her, and he didn’t think she really did miss him, not when she was so distracted by all those tourist sights. So he had a stupid idea, some ludicrous thought or temptation to just...

17th January, 1894

Poppy,

Don’t you dare send me anything. Where are these lodgings of yours in Paris? When exactly do you leave?

K.

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Poppy Dashwood

Poppy Dashwood · August 4, 2024 – 3:22 PM

January 18, 1894 - Paris, France

Poppy never expected anything from Kristoffer Lestrange. She knew better than to do so, as it would ruin the loveliness of whatever it was that had so unwittingly bloomed between them. It only worked to begin with because they could be honest and genuine with one another, or at least mildly less obtuse than with the rest of society. She appreciated him for what he was and had no desire to change him at all.

So when the letter went out, again Poppy did not expect much of a reply. She hoped, of course, and was a bit lighter in spirit the whole day through, but she was determined not to be disappointed if there was no return address. What letter did come however, both surprised and pleased her more than she dared to examine. It was short, and a bit puzzling, but it was better than naught. He had called her Poppy after all.

Some plans have changed so we shall be in Paris until the end of the month.

I am staying in the 8th arrondissement, along the Champs-Élysées. Aunt Viola has a friend from Beauxbatons who is hosting us. It’s an elegant little house not too far a walk from La Madeleine.

I am sending something, albeit not the delicacies promised.

yours,
Poppy

[attached is a small, roughly sketched map of the 8th arr. with indications of places visited, notes scribbled as to thoughts, and most importantly perhaps, the location of their lodgings.]

Kristoffer Lestrange & muse song

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