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Dear Francisco,

I trust that you are doing well. I'm not – you are lucky to be in London, though there is a rumor that you have moved to Prague. As you know, I am in Paris –and not in the least happy about it. We're currently staying in the Griffen household while our manor is being renovated – Aunt Eloise expounded on their generosity to take us in, and based on this, I think them simply dreadful thus far. Furthermore, here, I do not have the anti-social reputation that I had in London, and I am expected to go to parties. In my world, this is a novel concept. Added on to this ridiculous expectation (as it is not in the least horrible to go to parties in the first place – quite frankly, there are lovely buffets at parties) is the expectation that I dance. Simply and utterly horrifying.

And if I refuse? I am considered horrible, unfriendly, cruel, uptight and snobbish, and a list of other traits that would bore you to tears… all of them adding up to equal my former London reputation. Or so says Aunt Eloise. You may mock me for my petty concern, but my London reputation took a while to rack up; the French seem to already know 'my type,' of whom I have never met the equivalent of prior. In any case, it all means that, frankly, you are in London (or Prague) and I am in France. For some stupid reason.

When we finally reached Paris, it was near five o'clock (Paris time – to a degree. Did you know that they use military time here? What a pain.), yet Aunt Eloise maintained that I stay awake to 'watch over' Steph and Maria. Despite the fact that Steph has none of my wit (nor I her charm, which I am grateful for), she can be fairly intriguing company when you've naught else to do. Steph, as you know, is deceptive: I have a feeling that when we go to one of those dratted parties I'm obligated to attend, she will act what she looks – the beautiful airhead. Then, the tables will turn upon her admirers – you remember what happened at Salem Lake? I still can't help laughing at the thought of the deserving boy – Samuel, I believe it was? – plummeting into it. Accidentally, of course.

Then again, Steph seems to be wanting to change herself – I suppose she figures that starting a new life in a new town could lead to a different – and better (in her case) – future. And I am, once again, the one who must take the general 'backlash' of it all. Bluntly said, Steph has been begging me (discreetly) to change my ways – she has decided, I assume, to act like a proper 'lady.'

I'd love to see her try. Or, if not possible, I would like to see someone try to make her act like a proper lady.

Believe it or not, I have actually decided to change my ways. I would like the Parisians to think of me as a snobbish, mean, unfriendly, horrible, uptight, cruel, strange, weird, and the tremendously odd eccentric. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I can be thought of merely as the 'strict and evil eccentric.'

What a wonderful turn that would be.

Yes, in my transformation from 'peacekeeper' and 'lawmaker' (I can almost hear you laugh at 'peacemaker') I will keep my sword. It is hardly noticeable, and since when (imagine a mocking voice) has a lady known how to use such a thing? It would be folly! With this in mind, I hope that your lessons are coming along nicely. I was always best with the sword, and you with the bow. So be it. Ladies aren't supposed to know of either.

Coming to Paris has shown me the way we were generally 'supposed' to behave, and I swear to you – you could bring Joan of Arc back to life with the 'bloody clean way' we were supposed to behave.

Hopefully you don't mind. After all, if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have learned the bow. Sorry I mentioned that. I'm going to wait for news before I mail this. This could just be an excuse not to practice my faulty grasp of the French language, but I am sure I could pass it off with the excuse of 'waiting for news.'

Maria is doing well, recovering from her flu, but it still pains me to be around her, as she is always so bloody downcast and boring. I would think that she was anticipating an apocalypse. Lucky for Steph, even though Maria is prettier than her, Maria has that untouchable air that even I don't have – I envy it, though my reputation does enough of that – so people will most likely continue to prefer Steph, despite that she… you get the point.

Madame Griffen was quite obliging and kind, and was quick and sorry to say that her son was not home, but on military duty. I believe I will investigate her.

Two Days Later

I must say that my broad-spectrum effect to be an eccentric was simply astounding. It worked beautifully – it was faultless; people even stared! Before I hadn't quite thought it through – being an eccentric prevents people from socializing with you too much, you don't have to dance, people stare (that is usually a bonus. In this case, though, Steph did get quite a bit of attention, and I'll bet that she'll be getting even more once the strange – and somewhat frightened, I'm pleased to say – looks at me die out.), and the list goes on and on. You ought to try being an eccentric sometime, as no two eccentrics are alike. I have quite taken up this idea. I am under no false illusion that you would be a great eccentric, and here I go on about eccentricity as if it were a profession. I suppose it could be a profession though, as magic users seem to be rather eccentric, but that wouldn't be half-bad either. I actually entertain the reflection as a career choice once I cast off the burden of society. I have decided to add 'eccentric' to the list of careers that would suit me. It is likely to be chosen, as the only other item on the list is 'hermit' and compared to an eccentric…

First things first, even if they bore you: I was, in my opinion, wonderfully dressed, which, according to society, is simply terrifying. Aunt Eloise (I have half a mind to call her 'ant') bought me a new skirt – you know how I detest dresses. It is, to me magnificent, so, as I have tailored my tastes, it is revolting to the Parisians and Londonians (I suppose they're called) alike. It is ankle length and green, with a sheer over it that is of patchwork leaves and grasses. I refused to wear flowers. I did not wear stockings – much to Aunt Eloise's distaste - as I took into consideration the way it would add to my masquerade as an eccentric. One of my abiding beliefs, as you know, is to torment Aunt Eloise in every way possible. You know how she is a vegetarian – thus, the leather.

Unfortunately, not everything can be so magnificent as what has already happened, taking into contemplation that I have moved to Paris, which I consider ill fated.

Continuing (though I daresay you found that more interesting than the description of my clothing, but please allow me to have my moment of attention, which this entire letter is. At the end, you may find tacked on a bit about how are you, and so on, but that isn't really relevant or important):

So, naturally, I wore a vest – my green one that zips up in the back, I am sure you will be enthralled to know. Beneath that – yes, my traditional – a white shirt, but may I add that this time, the sleeves flared? Ha. I did something actually out of the ordinary. Only for the French.

My sword – you know it well enough, but I shall describe it for the sake of describing it – has a handsome sheath of hard leather, and the tip is capped in steel, for sheer looks and frivolity. You, of all people, know how many of those ghastly pink dresses with all of the Brussels lace (and my set of pearl bracelets, which, might I add, I did not mind losing in the least) I had to sell to buy the sword, and in memoir of that number – and my punishment – I had to buy that perfect sword, with the balanced blade, and the long hilt, no matter the frivolities. That blade is made of magic-enforced steel, and the hilt is wrapped in black leather… please reassure me that I am not over-reacting.

Back on topic: as you know, I wore no makeup (you remember Theresa?). And I paid no attention to my hair. Steph simply stared at me when I was ready to go, aghast. That reminds me: in my next letter, I must describe our home, for it is simply marvelous. Nothing like yours at Diamond Street, though. You must describe your home in Prague.

So we arrived at our first party, or 'fete,' in Paris. Luckily, Aunt Eloise can speak French. We were admitted to the Lamont's home, and I found myself thrust into a fete with at least two hundred attendees, Steph, my younger 'chaperone,' beside me.

Once young men began to dance with her, it wasn't that difficult to get lost. You simply cannot become an eccentric with someone like Steph by your side – I have become an aficionado when it comes to eccentrics and eccentricity, I feel.

The Lamont mansion – quite forthrightly, I got lost within minutes of wandering. It was in this fashion that I found my self on an upper–story balcony, very few people around. You probably don't understand the beautiful silence, as you have lived only in Prague and London, and it was enthralling. So wonderfully and magnificently quiet. Until some French idiot tapped me on the shoulder.

Lucky for me, he was not asking to dance, and he was one of the Lamont boys – around twenty-five, I would assume – but, he was asking, "For the sake of the safety of the people attending my festivity, would you please tell me who you are, and abandon your sword by the front?"

I'm afraid that Steph would be horrified at my reaction, but I couldn't resist. "Sir, my name is Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn and I refuse to discard my sword by the front doors. Your guests are safer if I've got it."

"Are you one of the security guards?" He inquired, rather hesitant, as my tone was cruel and high up.

I raised my chin, and though he was a good six inches taller than I was, managed to look 'down' at him scornfully. "I am no such barbaric person. And who are you, may I ask?" My tone was enough to send chills down anyone's spine, and if you heard that tone in London… you'd scram.

"The young Master Lamont. I apologize, but I am forced to remove your weapon," he reached for it. You can guess at what happened next.

I drew the blade, which was somewhat dumb, but 'the young Master Lamont' had almost requested overreaction. "If you touch this sword or its scabbard without bleeding, I will personally disembowel you. Then, I will inform you how I rubbed rat poison up and down the blade. In short, you will die." I have this strange feeling that I am going to get a reputation as an evil eccentric rather faster and easier than I thought.

"Lady Gwendolyn, it is assumed that you don't know the etiquette of Paris-"

"I didn't know the etiquette of London either, yet somehow," I emphasized the somehow, "I got along quite nicely. Go now, but spread the word. Lady Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn will not put up with any… 'threats' to her sword. And just so you know why I won't let anyone touch it, would you like to accept the honor of taking a few swipes with my blade?"

You, of all people, won't find that last bit strange, but I'm sure he did. My sword, unlike me, needs to have an eminent reputation. I will just be considered its keeper. Yes, I do suppose I am obsessing, but remember the trouble I had to go through!

"Umm…"

"Here." I passed him the weapon expertly (if, in fact, there is such a thing as "passing expertly"), and had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Lamont's eyes widen in acknowledgement of my expert stance. Yes, there is a bit of exaggeration in this.

He took my cherished weapon, and I definitely saw appreciation in his eyes as he swiped it, as an amateur would, a few times. You know it - it has the best balance of anything I've ever tried, it's ornate with magnificent gripping… no reason someone shouldn't be awestricken with it. After a few minutes of agony – the Lamont kid, though older than I, was a horrible swordsman – I requested the blade back, and sheathed it.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I bought it. Now go. Don't think I can't use it." The look on his face was worth all of the reputation of eccentric his rumor would destroy. Unfortunately, however, he did not spread the rumor that well that night, as I got fewer odd looks later. My sword got two. Oh yes! Before I forget, I was approached by another young man. He walked up to me, and as hard as I tried to shrink into the shadows (not my style, I assure you), he came up and said,

"Nice sword. Lance told me about it – he's my brother. I'll try to keep him quiet, but he could be considered the biggest gossip in the city."

"No thank you for preventing his rumor," I replied coldly. "Ever thought that maybe I wanted that tale told?"

The second 'other young Master Lamont' hesitated for a moment, taken aback, then returned to his efforts at socialization.

"I apologize; I'll convey the message to him at once. My name is Richard – Lamont, naturally," he countered cheerily, an edge of amusement in his voice. Then he turned and left abruptly. Thank goodness.

So, as the night was not really eventful past that – and I never danced – I conclude this letter by saying that we got into our carriage at around ten p.m. (our time, I assure you), which was early to leave the celebrations, and we left.

How are you? I hope you are doing well.

Thoughts and Fathoms,

The Repulsed Eccentric, who happens to be your Cousin of Near Equal Age,

Gwen

P.S. Where do you live in Prague? Address, please. I suppose that if you've really moved, the postal service will forward your mail. One can hope.

P.S.S. No, I did not forget your birthday. Happy birthday, or Bon Anniversaire, as they say here. Once you give me your address, I can mail your birthday gift, which I must deplore you, is beautiful.