Tristan had given little thought to the letters he had written long ago to Ernie Nuffer. He had thanked his lucky stars that they had never been sent and had put them in a shoebox along with Rasmus's letters to him from France and not given them a single thought for about a year now. The only reason that they had resurfaced now was that Tristan was looking for something he distinctly remembered having chucked into his closet and proceeded to forget about. He had looked in the shoebox to see if it had fallen in there, lifting the bound together letters with Ernies name on the top envelope to the side and finding his quarry.

He had not bothered to put them back. He had no reason to think that they would leave the desk in his bedroom until he returned.

The new maid the Michaud men had hired on seemed to have thought otherwise. For she had sent them. She was perfectly cheerful as she informed Tristan that she had tidied his room and sent his post which had confused him at first.

And then had come the stark, horrible realization. At that very moment, his ten letters to Ernie Nuffer were winging their way to wherever the boy now called his home. Tristan felt like he was going to be sick.