My Dearest Brother,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I imagine you’re still roaming the great forests of our ancestral lands, under the watchful gaze of the moon. Here, in Demomire, Henry and I have started to carve out a place for ourselves and the children. It’s a curious town, cradled by mountains and steeped in shadows that even the sun seems reluctant to pierce.
Henry, ever the pillar of strength, has become a figure the townsfolk look to for guidance. Our new homestead was but a skeletal frame of what it once was when we arrived. Henry’s hands have been full, mending fences warped by time and neglect, replacing shingles torn from the roof by relentless winds. The man’s as skilled with hammer as he is with his words. He’s built sturdy pens for the livestock we acquired—solid oak that’ll stand against both predator and storm.
The garden I’ve taken to tending was naught but a tangle of weeds at first glance. Now, it’s a thriving patchwork of vegetables and herbs that even Aunt Hazel might nod at appreciatively. The children help when their moods strike them right—Lucie with her gentle touch coaxing life from the soil, Emile and Marc hauling water from the stream when they aren’t lost to their own adventures.
Henry’s also seen to reinforcing the doors and windows of our home—not that he fears any man’s intrusion. He fashioned shutters that bolt from within, thick enough to keep any prying eyes or whispers at bay.
The townsfolk have taken note of his handiwork. He’s been called upon more than once to lend his skills to their needs—a porch on the brink of collapse, a barn door that wouldn’t shut proper. Each task he accepts builds respect among them; respect is currency in these parts.
I know you are always telling me to keep my nose out of it, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Demomire has a library, well not just any kind of Library, it is practically a cathedral, with spires that pierce the heavens and stone gargoyles that watch over ancient texts. It’s here that talk has started about establishing a university. Can you imagine? A university in a town where children run barefoot through the streets, their minds ripe for shaping but no school to attend. It’s a lofty ambition but one that neglects the pressing needs of today.
The first time I laid eyes on the Library, I thought it an omen—a sign that Demomire would be a place of growth and learning for us, especially for Lucie. But brother, I was mistaken. It’s not a sanctuary for all minds, but rather a retreat for the privileged few. The scholars who frequent its halls hail from places far beyond our little town, their noses buried in books that none of the local children would ever lay eyes on.
It’s become clear to me that knowledge here is a commodity, much like the gold they dig out of the mountains—a treasure kept under lock and key, accessible only to those with heavy pockets or prestigious names. It grates on me to see such disparity. Why should wisdom be hoarded like some miser’s coins?
So, I’ve taken it upon myself to do something about it. We need a schoolhouse in Demomire—one that serves every child with an eager mind and not just those born into wealth or stature. Lucie deserves as much, as do all the young ones hereabouts. With Henry’s encouragement, I’ve begun to lay the groundwork for a schoolhouse here in Demomire. A place where Lucie can learn alongside other children without fear or favor.
Now comes the part where you’ll say I’m too headstrong for my own good, but I’ve resolved to ask Baron Blackwood for assistance. Yes, the very same man whose mansion looms over this valley like some ancient sentinel. He’s got the means and influence to make this happen, and I believe he might just have the inclination as well. It was his ancestor that first gave the money for the library’s construction.
I don’t take this lightly; asking favors is not in my nature. But for this cause—for the children of Demomire—I will swallow my pride.
I can already hear your warnings ringing in my ears. “Claudette,” you’ll say, “be cautious with men like Blackwood.” And I will be. I know well enough that men of power often seek something in return for their charity. But brother, if there’s even a chance he could be swayed to support our schoolhouse project, then it’s a gamble I’m willing to take. Henry will accompany me when I go to see him—my steadfast shadow.
I confess there’s something stirring about teaching these young minds. Their eagerness is infectious, and even on my most weary days, I find their curiosity rekindles my own love for learning. It’s decided then—I will be their teacher, and our school will welcome any child willing to learn.
We will start small—a single room where imaginations can soar and questions are met with answers or more questions, whichever serves best. In time, who knows? Perhaps our little schoolhouse will instill a hunger for knowledge that will demand a university worthy of Demomire’s children.
I reckon you’d get a chuckle seeing me try to fit all that’s in my head onto this scrap of paper. But there’s news of Emile, and I figure it’s worth the cramped fingers to tell you about it.
The boy’s got a way with beasts that borders on the uncanny. He can calm a spooked horse with nothing more than a steady gaze and a soft word. It’s like he speaks their silent language, understands their fears and wants as if they were his own. So, it’s no surprise he found himself a spot at the town stables. It’s honest work, keeps him busy, and the stable master says there’s not another soul he’d trust more with his animals.
Now, I won’t sugarcoat it—he takes to books like a cat to water. He’d sooner be out tracking game or fishing in the creek than stuck indoors with his nose buried in a tome. But he’s smart, my Emile, sharp as they come. And I’ll be damned if I let that keen mind go to waste. So we strike a deal, him and me: for every hour he spends out in the wilds being a “wild man,” as you’d say, he gives me half that in study.
It might not seem much, but it’s progress. Slow and steady as the growth of an oak. And when he does sit down to learn, there’s a light in his eyes—a fire that tells me he’s grasping more than he lets on.
I see so much of our father in him, that same quiet strength and respect for the living forest. But there’s also this restlessness—a yearning for freedom that I reckon comes from this life we’ve chosen. Or maybe it was chosen for us.
You should see him with Lucie and Marc. They look up to him something fierce. He teaches them how to move through the woods without snapping twigs beneath their boots, how to listen to the language of birds, and how to know which way the wind is blowing by the feel of it on their cheeks.
I’m proud of him, brother. Proud of who he is becoming—a man of character shaped by both nature and nurture. And I love him fiercely, with all the fire in my heart.
He’ll be fine as long as he keeps one foot in civilization while letting the other roam free in the wilds—like balancing on a tightrope strung between two worlds. It ain’t an easy feat, but if anyone can manage it, Emile can.
And don’t you worry none about our girl Lucie or young Marc—they’re getting their fair share of mothering (and schooling) too.
Our moonlit runs, I’ll tell you, have been nothing short of a revelation. Demomire’s wilderness is a wild thing, vast and untamed, much like the forests of the old country that we roamed as children. It’s a living memory, an echo of ancient times that stirs something primal within us.
There’s a scent on the wind here that I can’t quite place. I suspect there’s a colony of bats nearby, though I’ve yet to find their roost—live and let live, as long as they keep to themselves and don’t trouble me and mine.
I’ve taken to these forests with a hunter’s stealth and a guardian’s eye. You’d be proud to see how the children have adapted; their senses are sharp, their movements like whispers on the breeze. We’ve seen no hunters here—no traps or snares to mar the purity of this place. It gives me peace to know that we can run under the silver light without fear, unlike in our previous town where danger lurked behind every tree.
I must close now; Henry is calling me to inspect some new tracks he found by the creek—probably just a deer or some other four-legged neighbor passing through our land. Take care, brother, and may your own nights be filled with freedom under the moon’s watchful eye. There’ll be more tales to tell soon enough—of schoolhouses and stables and whatever else this town throws our way—but for now, know we’re holding our own out here in Demomire. Give my love to the pack and remind them that while distance may separate us, we remain united under the same moonlit sky.
With enduring affection,
Claudette
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