I come back to my crib one evening and find three black roses and a small, silver box on my pillow. My first thought is that it is a gift from Stormy for our imprisonment and her special needs have reinforced the bond between us over the past few months. Stormy, however, denies all knowledge of it and Darcy just shrugs and looks as bewildered as Stormy and I. I figure then that it must be an anonymous gift from one of my students. I put the roses into a vase and then, curling up on my bed, I open the box and find three dark chocolates inside. For a moment, I suspect poison or some other mischief but a quick revelation spell proves that they are free of any such thing. So I take a careful bite out of the first piece, and – oh, Sisters! – the taste is pure enchantment and exquisite beyond words. Before I realise it, I have eaten all three pieces and I am greedily licking all remnants of chocolate from my fingertips even at risking cutting my tongue on my long nails.
For the next few days, I keep an eye out as I travel the hallways and while I lecture classes for any signs of a secret admirer but find none. Yet, each evening when I return I find another little gift waiting for me: a silver comb, a new tower for my hair, some perfume. Each time both Darcy and Stormy swear to me that they have nothing to do with it.
One evening, another silver box with three black roses shows up again on my pillow. I open the box and once again it contains three dark chocolates.
"Hey!" protests Stormy. "There are three roses, three chocolates and three of us. What makes you think this is all for you? How about sharing?"
So I oblige by giving each of them a rose and a chocolate. I put the rose in a vase on my vanity and curl up on my bed to savour my one piece of chocolate. Again, I experience sensual ecstasy but it is a different reaction from Darcy and Stormy.
"Peee-yech!" gags Stormy. "This tastes worse than reconstituted freeze-dried faerie puke!" Darcy's remark is no kinder as they both spit out what's in their mouths and rush to wash them out with water. The roses I gave them faired no better. In the morning, each of theirs was blighted and falling apart while mine remained as fresh as if it were just snipped from the bush. After that, there are no more arguments about for whom the gifts are intended.
And the gifts do continue to come as mysteriously as before. We can never seem to catch when they appear they just suddenly do. It becomes a game among us to try and figure the nature of the giver.
"Well, I think that it's a guy," says Darcy. "Roses and chocolate are definitely a guy thing."
"But the jewellery suggest a woman," insists Stormy. "And how is a man to get anywhere near here?"
"Have you checked under your bed lately, Icy?" smirks Darcy and we all laugh.
"All you'll find are slippers," I tell her. "Have you checked under your own?"
"Yeah," ribs Stormy. "Is that where you're hiding Riven?"
"No," retaliates Darcy. "I have only some rot-worms in a cage I'm waiting to dump on you both when you least expect it."
"Yeah, dream on!" I tell her.
The next evening, as if in answer to our question, a sheet of parchment, folded and sealed with a single application of unembossed black sealing wax, and one black rose appear on my pillow.
"At last," I think to myself, "my admirer is about to reveal herself."
I open it and read an unsigned poem professing unending love for me and pleading with me to give up my evil ways and return to The Light.
"As if!" I say out loud as my temper begins to boil. "Stormy, Darcy, if this is your idea of a prank it has now stopped being fun or amusing," I rage at them.
"No way is it us!" protests Darcy. "Give it here. Maybe I can recognise from whom it is from."
I hand the parchment to Darcy who looks at it and frowns.
"You can make sense of this cat scratching?" asks Darcy. "It's not even Witchspeak, Alfean or any other language that I know of for that matter.
"If it's not Witchspeak, then it is definitely not from me," adds Stormy crossing her arms and sulking.
"Let me see it," I say angrily taking back the piece of parchment.
Of course I understand this! It's in Italian! I read it aloud and realise that it is not only Italian but my dialect of Italian almost to the doorstep of my home. It is poetry like my mother once wrote. By the Tree! It has been seven years now since I've uttered a single syllable of it.
This cuts deeply and I feel myself trembling inside. Even without understanding a word, both Darcy and Stormy feel their emotive power.
"Whoa!" exclaims Stormy. "This is some seriously heavy stuff. What does it mean?"
"Never mind," I tell her turning away my face.
That night, I dream of my dead mother. When I wake up, my eyes and cheeks are moist and there is a wet spot on my pillow.
"No way is this happening," I tell myself as I quickly wash, dress and head off to Professor Zarathustra's office to pick up the day's class agenda.