Themis had spent hours agonizing over blank parchment, her intentions pure, but her will wavering. In the end, it didn't matter what she put on parchment, because the letter was quickly burned, never to see its recipient. Had she sent it, Samuel Griffith would have received the following:

16 December 1894

Samuel,

I hesitate to write you, because how could I say in writing what I’ve failed to say in words? God, I wish I had the nerve to tell you in words what I experienced in your presence, the overwhelming emotion that could only be yours? Merlin, I hate this simpering thing I’ve become for you, the urge to pine and waste away as if your absence was the most monumental part of my day. It will not do, it cannot suffice.

I miss you. I miss and I long and I burn for you. But I am a fool in full. I will never give this to an owl, I will never tell you how desperately I ache for you. It would be a fool’s errand, to ever be so broken in front of a man. It will never be, I could not forgive myself, not when I will never know the depths or quality of your affection.

Idiotic and impossible, perhaps those are the truest words for our predicament. It can be nothing more.
How I will live and die resenting that.

And other words I’ll never say,

Yours,
T.L.

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   Samuel Griffith

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This letter finds its way to a small stack of notes she needs to throw into the fire.

17 December 1894

Samuel,

Perhaps I have gone mad, I'm writing you letters I know I will never send you. I should tell you that I wrote another letter tonight and this one was sent. I have decided I will not be idle in your absence. When have I ever been comfortable being idle? It isn't in my nature or yours. I will blame that nature for my owl: I wrote to Professor Crowley. Of our colleagues she is the best source of possible answers to my questions. I'm sure there are other options, but while I do not consider her a known entity or friend, I do trust her to chase knowledge for knowledge's sake and to do so without seeking to profit from me in the process. Those among our colleagues I consider to friendly are all too soft of sort or unversed in what I seek.

It angers me that you are gone because it's you'd I'd bring this question to. There are so many questions I have and all of them seem impossible to ask now. There is so much I want to know and you, my unexpected teacher, are gone. I do not know how to begin with my questions. How will I ever explain to this near stranger how my magic feels different somehow?

I'm not sure if you would find my impatience endearing or aggravating, but when we meet again, I hope I can explain myself.

Yours,
T.L.

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