I.
Dear Asra,
I don't know if you'll read this. Perhaps you're angry, and if you were, I wouldn't blame you. We said horrible things to each other. I said a horrible thing, and it doesn't matter that I was hurting. I'm sorry and I hope you can forgive me. I love you. I will continue to love you even if you're a thousand miles away.
(I hope you're not. I hope you come back soon. Our bed feels empty without you.)
Do you remember the clinic I mentioned? I have been working there for the past two weeks. It's run by a man named Ilya Devorak, a doctor from Nevivon. He knows the Red Death - what it looks like and how to treat it. Under his instruction I have learned much about physic. How to ease suffering, how to prevent the spread of disease.
If you worry, don't. I'm well protected. I hope that brings you a small measure of comfort.
I love you. I miss you. I hope you and Faust are having fun. Please come home when you're no longer angry.
Yours,
Daya
II.
My love,
I haven't heard from you, but I write regardless. I hope my words reach you wherever you are, and know I'm always thinking of you.
I continue to work with Doctor Devorak. He is a good man. He works hard to ensure the sick are made comfortable, and eases their passing if or when they go. The plague is only becoming worse, and most who contract it do not survive. Those who do are left with lasting damage, physically disfigured or with ill health that lasts a lifetime.
If you wonder, I do fear the plague. I fear catching it, as my parents did. As the baker's father did. But Doctor Devorak takes measures to prevent its spread, through cleanliness and through what he calls barriers. Gloves that cover my hands. A mask to cover my face. An apron to cover my clothes. I told you I was well-protected, and the doctor will not allow me near his patients without these coverings.
I think if you met the doctor you would like him. I find myself liking him. He has an easy manner to him that reminds me of you. He makes me laugh, like you make me laugh. It makes me long for you more than I can express.
Our days are hard, long and I'm often tired. I wish I could come home to you. I love you and miss you always. Please write and let me know you're well. At least do this, even if you cannot forgive me.
Your Daya
III.
My dear,
(Do not mind the different greeting. The doctor's affectations rub off on me.)
You must be angry to not respond after so many weeks. I understand. I do. But will you not write to me and let me know you are safe? It's not like you to let me worry. I also want to know Faust is safe. Please give her a chin scritch from me.
You may be interested to hear this. Rumour has it the plague has reached the palace, with Count Lucio being ill for some weeks now. I have not heard of the Countess's health, but I suppose no news is good news.
Accordingly, our 'esteemed' Count has approved a venture to find a cure for the plague, likely motivated by his own impending mortality. He extends an invitation to all manner of experts to use the resources the palace has to offer. He has invited doctors, magicians, alchemists, pharmacists-even clevermen.
Ilya (that is, Doctor Devorak) has left the running of the clinic in my hands and accepted the invitation. We have become friendly in these months, and if I can be honest, he has been a source of comfort to me.
I have often told you how you light up any room, and it wasn't simple flattery. The shop seems dull and lifeless without you. I don't wish to replace you with Ilya. I wish only for you to come home and end this cruel silence.
There are so few people in Vesuvia now. Many are dead, but many have also left, like you did. If you are not coming back, if this is it...I will understand. But for the sake of how long we have known each other, I beg you to tell me if you are safe. One letter, that's all I ask. For the life we shared.
Daya
P.S. my letters may be less frequent as I take on the extra responsibility of running the clinic. Ilya says I am ready. I comfort myself by thinking you would have the same confidence in me.