was setting, she took her two finds into the parlor and lit the oil lamps—
And then, of course, she realized just how grimy she was, so she delayed the moment of discovery still further by going to wash her hands and face. Somehow she didn't want to touch her discoveries with filthy hands. It didn't feel right.
And somehow, she wanted to delay that moment of discovery; she was not sure why, but she both longed for and feared the moment when she would open that envelope and learn what lay inside.
Only then, with clean hands and face, did she sit down at the table, remove the envelope from inside the copybook with hands that shook with excitement, and opened the flap.
There was a note inside, a very short note, in the same hand that had written her name on the box. The paper had yellowed, the ink had browned, but the writing was clear enough. The words hit her like blows, burned into her mind as if they had been branded there.
My dear daughter, it began, and she bit back a cry to realize that the writer, as she had not dared to hope, was her own long-dead mother. My friend Sarah would laugh at me if she knew I was doing this. She would say that I am anticipating the worst. I would only say that since neither of us have the gift of scrying into the future, one cannot anticipate anything, and I am taking precautions. If you have found this, you have found my most important legacy to you, my daughter, whom I knew would one day wield the power of a Master of Fire. Sarah is neither a Master nor of your Element, and cannot teach you most of what you need to know. It was hard for me to find a teacher; it may be that by the time you find this, you already have determined you, too, will not be able to find a Fire Master willing to teach a mere girl. In this book you will find all that I know. If you have not already done so, go to Sarah, the midwife some call our village witch, and ask her to help you, since I am not there to do so myself. Be fearless and strong, and seize your birthright with all the strength that is in you.
And that was all. Eleanor felt—
Disappointed. Horribly, dreadfully disappointed. Where were the tender sentiments, the assurances that she had been loved and cherished, and that wherever her mother was, she still loved her daughter? Where were the gentle words of encouragement from beyond the grave? This might just as well have been a note from one of the tutors at Oxford, for all the warmth that was in it.
She held the note in hands that shook, and felt like a little girl on what she dreamed was Christmas morning who awakens to find that it is not the glorious holiday, but just another day. She had always thought, always assumed, that if she ever, ever found something for her from her long-lost mother, it would be full of messages of love and devotion. This—this was more like the old Roman matron's cry to her son departing for the wars: 'Return with your shield, or on it.' Where was the love in that?
Maybe she didn't care about me after all. Maybe all she thought of me was that I was someone to follow in her footsteps.
She felt bereft, as if something had been taken from her. And as she sat there, the copybook still unopened, two huge tears gathered in her stinging eyes, overflowed, and burned their way down her cheeks.
'Ah, here you are]' Sarah exclaimed from the parlor door. 'What on earth are you doing in here?'
She turned, and Sarah started a little. 'And why on earth are you crying?' the witch exclaimed, looking astonished. 'What's happened?' Eleanor sniffed back more tears, and held out the note and the unopened book. 'I—went up to the attic,' she said, around the enormous and painful lump in her throat that threatened to choke her. 'And I found these.'
Sarah made quick work of the note, her eyes widening and her face taking on an expression of astonished pleasure. 'Good heavens, girl, don't you realize what this is? It's what I can't teach you] This is wonderful! Why are you weeping like that?'
'She didn't—she didn't—' Eleanor began to sob; she couldn't help it. The tears just started and wouldn't stop. 'She never says she loved me—'
'Oh, my dear—' Suddenly Sarah softened all over, in a way that Eleanor had never seen her do before. She sat down on the chair next to Eleanor, and took Eleanor into her arms. Unresisting, Eleanor sagged against her. 'You silly little goose,' she said fondly, holding Eleanor against her shoulder, and wiping away Eleanor's tears with the corner of her apron. 'Of course she didn't. Why should she? She never expected you to read that note! She always thought she would be there, teaching you herself! Can't you read how self-conscious her words are? How stiff?'
'Yes, but—' Eleanor began.
'Well, there you are, she was just being what I would have called silly-cautious, and she knew I would have made fun of her if I'd known she was writing that.' Sarah stroked her hair, her voice full of such unshakeable conviction that Eleanor could not disbelieve. 'She told you every single day, several times a day, how much she loved you, first thing on waking and last thing at night. I heard her. She showed you hundreds of times more in a day. Why should she tell you in a note, when she thought she would always be here to keep telling and showing you?'
Eleanor managed to control her sobbing, and Sarah's words penetrated her grief somewhat. 'But—why didn't she think—'
