Letters to Zell Read Online Free PDF Page A

without so much as a good-bye. We hiked up the hill and went through the portal as discreetly as we could manage, though we heard gasps from a bunch of suited men puffing on white tobacco sticks nearby.
    “What if she hadn’t given us a ride?” I said.
    “What-ifs are a serious fucking waste of time,” Bianca said.
    She was right. I know all too well that dwelling on things that didn’t happen doesn’t do anything but keep you from living.
    It’s a good bit different than worrying about the future, though. I’ll try not to worry about that, and I hope you’ll try not to, either. Let’s not worry together.
    Love,
    Rory

From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
    Crystal Palace
    North Road, Grimmland
    Dear Zell,
    I’m sorry about my last letter. I shouldn’t have ended it so harshly. I was mad that you weren’t there for our adventure and mad that we went at all because I liked going so much and I don’t know when we can go again. I’m mad because I feel like I’ve finally found my purpose and I’ll never be able to immerse myself fully.
    Sure, I made meals for Lucinda and the twins for years, but she and the girls said my food tasted like donkey piss, and I believed them. I made simple things and I never pushed myself. Now, I feel as if I could be a success. I’ve never been talented at anything before. Remember the time I tried to help out at Rumple’s and cut a hole in the rear of your Aunt Bess’s bustle?
    I couldn’t wait to tell Edmund, so when he came home today, I met him at the gates. He was a little distracted talking about the Queen of Hearts’ opposition to the Byway (and everything else, for that matter) and next week’s Supporters of Robin Hood meeting, but I finally got him to listen for a moment.
    “I want to do something extra special for the two of us.”
    He put his arm around me and smiled. “I’d love that. What is it?”
    “I want to make us a special dinner. Candles and wine and soufflé!”
    “That’s a fantastic idea. I’ll tell the kitchen staff.”
    “No. Thank you. You don’t have to tell the staff. I can do it.”
    “Cook dinner? Well, of course you can . But the great part is that you don’t have to. Remember when I told you you’d never have to wait on people again?”
    “Well, I just   .   .   . See, I want to do something for us. For you.”
    And he held my face in his hands like he does sometimes and said, “Darling, toiling away in the kitchens is no longer your destiny. We rescued you from all that, remember.”
    “But it would be like a gift, Ed.”
    He stepped back. “I never want you to feel as if you owe something to me or that you serve me in some manner. I’m not that kind of guy. You know that, right?”
    “Of course, but I just—”
    “All you need to do is be your beautiful self. Besides, we couldn’t have everyone thinking I put you back in the kitchens, could we? Come now and see the gifts I’ve brought you.”
    They were lovely gifts. They looked very bright and shiny, like things do when you’re trying not to cry. Once, he looked up and noticed and asked what was wrong, so I told him I was just happy to see him. That I’d missed him. At least that part was truth.
    I did not tell him that he had misunderstood. That I was all at once in awe of the gracious man he is and heartsick that I hadn’t managed to explain myself coherently. Then I followed things up by lying, saying everything was fine when it wasn’t. That was a mistake because then I had to have sex while pretending that I didn’t want to cry.
    The point is this: I want to cook. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. And then again I don’t. I don’t want to make a mess. I don’t want to destroy the fragile truce between me and my life. Everything is fine just as it is. Do I need to go and upend everything? This is your fault for making me think I could have something else. For making me wonder. For letting me hope it would be okay to want anything other than