Prologue
"No, I couldn't decide. If I could have done as I did with the hats...it would have been quite easy."
-Phillipa Gordon, Anne of the Island
It is common knowledge that humans are generally indecisive beings, but there was no doubt in the world—at least in her own mind—that Phillipa Blake was the most indecisive of them all. That point made, and eager to distract herself from the current task, Phil thought about her new name, and upon saying it aloud, she resolved that it was the most beautiful name in the world, for it give her the same tingle that she experienced whenever she walked into a hat stop.
Her frivolous, cowardly side snatched the hat shop viciously not two seconds after she thought of it and began to distract Phil once again with imaginings of a world comprised of only ribbons and lace—and hats, of course. But then a strong, sensible voice that Phil didn't know existed came knowing upon the shop-door, telling her to focus.
Focus. That's what she needed to do. That in mind, Phil stared determinedly down at the blank sheet of letter-paper. Unfortunately, this paper was of the particular brand that happened to be an inanimate object, and would not cower beneath Phil's glare. The pure white color seemed to laugh at her from afar. It knew she couldn't do it; that she couldn't write the Letter.
The Letter was a sneaky, sly idea that had managed to nudge its way past Phil's reason and good judgment and into the recesses of actual possibility. However, reason and good judgment had come back and ambushed the idea, inflicting doubt into to her mind, and thereby causing the death of two, no three pieces of letter-paper, attempts at writing this…this…letter!
Phil rubbed each of her temples with two fingers, willing herself to calm down. She stared at the paper once more, miserable with the burden upon her delicate shoulders. It could end in either way—disaster or delight.
At length, Phil took the paper in her grasp and crushed it, smashed it with her palms, pierced it with her nails and then tossed it victoriously into the waste-paper basket. No inanimate object would dare mock Phillipa Blake!
But, in the midst of her triumph, Phil felt a certain guilty gnawing in her stomach. She had made the right decision…hadn't she?
Rebecca Dew, a few weeks later, had the same trouble as Phil, in that intense glaring is quite lost upon inanimate objects. Huffing, she wiped off Aunt Kate's prim script in the dust on the parlor-room mirror. What had once read 'Rebecca Dew' now was only a gleaming reflective surface. Satisfied, Rebecca Dew was just about to turn on her heel to dust the mantel when she heard a timid, quiet knock on the back door.
Company, she thought to herself, grimacing. Company of these two old widows is never pleasant. But, being a dutiful helping hand, Rebecca Dew managed a neutral expression when she opened the back door. It may be noted that Rebecca Dew's neutral expression that day was a rather unpleasant to look at disgusted sort of frown.
Now, Rebecca Dew didn't know whom she had expected to being standing in Windy Poplar's back doorway, but it most certainly wasn't this queer-looking red-haired sad-faced girl of about twenty and her tabby-ish middle aged companion. Rebecca Dew disliked tabby-cat people. They did so remind her of That Cat.
The girl looked quite startled at Rebecca Dew's grim expression, and asked a bit nervously if she could see Mrs. MacComber.