A Letter to the Giftmaker - Chapter 8

"Are you sure this will work?" Edwin asked as they tromped through the snow. "I mean, will the letter get delivered?"

"I don't see why the post office wouldn't be open tomorrow. It's not a holiday," Harriet said.

"Yes, but I need a guarantee that the letter will be delivered by tomorrow night." He turned to Jo. "It has to be, or I don't get my wishes."

Jo shrugged. "Probably."

Edwin stopped and looked at him. "That's the best you can say? Probably?"

"Everything will be better tomorrow, one way or another."

Edwin shook his head, rejecting that fluffy naivete. "This has to work. Everything, everything, in my life depends on this working."

"I'll do what I can, but I can't promise that everything will work out, mate."

Edwin huffed. "We are not friends."

Jo flinched and swallowed hard. "Right." He took a deep breath and his smile returned. "Well, here's our destination."

Edwin looked up at the depressing brick building with whitewash that had turned a sooty gray over the years. He fidgeted with his hat, his finger tracing the rip between the brim and the crown. Not even the dim orange glow from the setting sun could bring any cheer to the dismal building.

"It's... quaint," Harriet said unhelpfully.

Jo nodded soberly. "What are the dorms like for the post office?"

Harriet rubbed at her navy blue pants, ignoring Jo's eyes. "I... I don't stay in the dorms."

Jo nodded. "Makes sense. It's not much, but I only pay eight coppers a week for the room and board."

"Even that seems like a rip-off," Edwin muttered and shook his head slowly. "Well, we're not staying here."

He turned and strode back towards the center of town.

Harriet grabbed Jo's wrist and pulled him after Edwin. "Where else would we go?"

"Maybe someone will let us stay for one night for free." Edwin frowned, knowing it was a foolish thing to hope for.

"I've got thirteen copper," Jo said, coins jingling in his hand.

"You're not paying," Harriet said brusquely.

"Don't stop him if he wants to." Edwin didn't break his stride.

Jo walked up next to Edwin. "You're proper motivated, aren't you?"

"This is what I deserve." There was the faintest wobble in his voice. He chalked it up to exhaustion. "Let's find somewhere decent to stay."

Jo pointed down a side street. "Mary Kite's has some nice rooms, so I've heard."

"One gilt a night per room. Sorry, can't go lower," Mary Kite said, her gray eyebrows knit in contempt. The inn was clean, and Edwin would gladly stay there, but they couldn't even afford a single room.

Edwin glared at Harriet. This was all her fault. First making his letter miss the carriage, then lying about the train tickets, then making him stay here. He was suffering because of her.

"You can stay at the dorms," Jo said again.

Edwin closed his eyes, willing away the headache from Jo's persistent optimism. No! he wanted to say. I'll never stay in a rat-infested ashcan like that!

He would never say that, of course. Firstly, because that would be rude to say in front of others. And more importantly, it was factually untrue. Edwin's own apartment was just as dark and filthy and rat-infested as the dorms, if not more-so.

The railroad dorms would be better than sleeping on the streets, barely. At least there was likely to be some sort of stove, a few coals, and a modicum of privacy.

Edwin looked over at the other two. Harriet scuffed her shoe against the wooden floor, avoiding any eye contact. Jo smiled, bright and fake, as he tried to solve every problem and make the mood lighter. They both were waiting for him. They were here because of him.

Their eyes bored into him, punished him, stripped away his lies. As mad as he was at Harriet, as annoyed with Jo, he couldn't escape the fact that he was guilty. This whole thing was, in some small part, his fault.

His chest tightened. The nausea from earlier returned and he felt sweat forming on his face. He nearly grabbed the check-in desk for support, but refused to let them see any weakness. Instead, he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and looked at the ground.

He needed to fix this. Just this one thing – the room. Everything else was Harriet's fault, but he would accept responsibility for getting them stranded in this town. And he would solve it.

His fingers closed around the glossy parchment in his pocket. The guard had offered to open the door for a piece. Maybe others would find value in it as well.

The letter was out and open on the oak check-in desk before the conscious part of Edwin's mind realized he'd made a decision. "I'll give you a piece of this for three rooms tonight, and one whenever I want."

Mrs. Kite's eyes widened. "Is that... wishpaper?"

Edwin pointed to a line. "Here. 'Perfect health until age one hundred.'"

Mrs. Kite rubbed her hands together and grinned. "Yes, fine. Three rooms for tonight."

"And a room whenever I return."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. Now, give it to me!" She held out a fountain pen.

Edwin scribbled 'For Mrs. Mary Kite' at the end of the sentence. He carefully cut the section from the middle of the parchment. He whimpered softly as he made the final cut and the strip fluttered onto the desk.

With reverence he held it out for the old woman. "A gift. For you."

She took hold of the scrap and pulled. His fingers refused to let go for just a moment, then the scrap was in her grasp alone.

She groaned a long, deep sigh. "My knees! My elbows!" She danced slightly. "The pain is gone."

Edwin looked down at the paper, his thumb tracing the edges of the hole.

"Our rooms?" Jo asked.

"Oh, right." Mrs. Kite tossed three keys onto the desk. "Check out in the morning. No loud noises, no drinking." She skipped away into the office, leaving them in silence.

A hand touched Edwin's shoulder. He looked up to see Harriet's eyes not darting around like normal, but focused on him.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

"I'm fine." His eyes locked on the parchment in his hand. He slowly folded the letter up and carefully retied the bow. A commoner would not see him cry.