My dear Belle,

It is strange how the way we feel today can rewrite our memories.

Two hours' walk from Ramsgate is a port city called Longbough. As, I'm told, many sea towns are, it's raucous, crime- and rat-ridden, dank and dangerous, a city of taverns, where the residents, parasites to the pirates, smugglers and slavers that pass through on their ships, turn a blind eye to both the evil and the good. Gold is god there. Most men of Ramsgate visit there at least once in their lives to experience debauchery without guilt or legal hindrance; most come back again disappointed and broke. I went there once, in a fruitless attempt to rescue Milah from the pirate who I had been told had captured her. You know the story. What I have not told you is that I still sometimes dream about Longbough. Until last night, those dreams were always nightmares. Initially, they were dreams of loss and failure, though those feelings quickly dissipated as I came to realize Bae and I were, shockingly, happier without Milah. But the dreams didn't go away with this realization; they became instead evidence of my cowardice.

Last night that changed. It had been nearly a year since I last dreamt of Longbough. My life has been so full, I suppose, with friends and work and you, that the man I was in those days has come to seem foreign to me. But last night, I lay in the dark and thought about the future of this kingdom, standing as we are now on a crossroads, and as I fell asleep a vision of Longbough overtook me, but instead of dread or fear or humiliation, I felt—this is so strange, Belle—I felt anticipation. I saw myself standing on a dock, looking out over the ocean, as ships of every function drew in, each of them carrying crates stacked upon crates, and when those crates were lifted down to the dock and pried open, inside were iron chests, and when those chests were unlocked and opened, inside were shining stacks of gold coin. And as I shoved my hand into those coins, I thought, this is the future.

I was puzzled when I awoke. I had thought—hoped—that I'd put Longbough behind me. Why would I dream about it now, and as a place connected to my future? But then I remembered that just before I had fallen asleep, I had been mulling over Aramore's future and all the hopes you and your father have for it: a country dedicated to learning, science, art and peace. Hopes that require gold to make them real. Then I remembered that before I'd retired for the night, I had been reading a history of a seatown called Tariffa, and an idea its mayor had to raise money to support the town's needs.

I realized then my dream was literal. Belle, along the southern coast of Aramore are half-dozen seaports like Longbough. Is it not a shame that ships come and go hour after hour, taking advantage of these ports-getting rich thanks in part to these ports, and yet, the only Aramorians who benefit are tavern keepers and houses of ill repute? Should we not require those who use our shores to pay something for the privilege? The mayor of Tariffa thought so; he set a price upon the use of his town's docks. Should Aramore not do the same?

If we must tolerate the illicit activities that come with the shipping trade, can we not at least turn some of it to good? Let the pirates, smugglers and slavers help us to build roads and schools and physicians' clinics (and pay the salaries of constables who will jail the pirates, smugglers and slavers who get drunk, assault each other, rob good citizens and prey on the miseries of wives).

Yes, I admit it, there is some element of personal revenge in my proposal. But Belle, wouldn't it be sweet to walk down a freshly paved road to a newly built school, knowing all was done with taxes levied upon pirates?

Rumple

Dearest Rumple,

It is possible! It can be done! I brought your idea of shipping taxes to my father, and he consulted with our advisors, who found the idea legal, fair and sound (no small feat: they hardly ever find anything to meet all three qualifications!). My father has sent representatives to Tariffa to learn more. But I do believe this dream of yours will come to reality, and from it will spring schools and clinics and much, much good.

My father has one question for you, Rumple: why do you not come to Avonlea and serve him as an advisor? A truly dedicated citizen would.

You are a leader, Rumple, though you don't see it. We need you in a seat at my father's Circle of Advisors. Aramore needs you.

Yours,

Belle

My dear Belle,

Your father's offer means more to me than I can express. It never ceases to amaze me that I have had the privilege of standing alongside my King on the edge of a battle (and what an inspiring figure he is, sword upraised, leading a charge-Belle, I have read the histories of your grandfather's wartime accomplishments, but I cannot imagine that, bold as he must have been, he could have been any more fearsome than your father was that day in Domin Canyon). It is thanks to you that I will always have that memory.

But dear one, you must realize that I don't have a rightful place at Ravershire. Ideas, I have, and I will gladly offer them, for whatever use you can make of them, but boldness like your grandfather's, leadership like your father's, bravery like yours-I have nothing of any of that, and I never will. Let's continue as we are, sweetheart, as confidants who encourage and inspire one another. If I were by your side, I would only disappoint you, and it would destroy me to lose your trust.

Rumple

Dearest Rumple,

You break my heart. And yet somehow, you give it back to me again, whole.

I thought love, if it's true, would be simple. It seems to be for my parents. But it's one big knot, isn't it.

My mother says sometimes love is a pillow that you can lay your dreams on, but sometimes it's a bloom of steel that must be pounded and heated and pounded some more. Is this our Age of Steel, Rumple? I certainly feel tested.

But I won't give up.

yours,

Belle

Dearest Rumple,

A most remarkable thing happened this afternoon. It was Petitions Day. My father sat aside, asking me to preside; it wasn't for my sake, he said—he already believes I have the experience and judgment. Rather, he wants me to start taking on a more visible public role so that the people will begin to shift their expectations for leadership toward me. When he told me this, I gasped, fearful that it meant he must be pulling back from his duties—and that, in turn, must mean that he's not feeling well. But he assured me he's "fit as a bull and twice as strong"; he wishes to spend more time with my mother "molding the gray men" in an effort to reduce the resistance to the treaty.

So I donned my ermine robe—I detest it; it's so hot and itchy, but it's kind of a tradition for Petitions Day—and I sat upon the throne, which is much too big for me—it was built, after all, for a man a full twelve inches taller than I. A footstool was brought in so my feet wouldn't dangle. Uncomfortable as the trappings were for me, I settled in quickly once the Petitions began. Entreaty after entreaty, all routine matters for which I needed little counsel. Rumple, it felt right to me. It felt natural. And I truly felt useful, as I so seldom do when performing official duties, so many of which have consisted of little more than smiling and nodding. I really felt like a leader today.

But that was not the remarkable part of it. After the final Petition, as I stood and gathered my robes about me to walk away (and back to the comfort of my linen dress and my books), the Chamberlain called me back to hear one final appeal. The footmen swung the doors wide and suddenly the room was filled with people—smiling people, farmers, craftsmen, merchants, educators, artists and clergy, and oh, to my even greater shock, I counted four nobles at the lead! Oh heavens, Rumple! And every one of them—the final count, according to the Chamberlain, was thirty-two!—carried something. Wheels of cheese and blocks of salt, loaves of bread, canned vegetables and dried fruits, and hammers and saws and nails and files and augers, rakes and hoes and shovels, bolts of cloth and spindles of yarn. I spotted a few books and toys too, and even a painting (a landscape of the Glass Mountains).

My Lord Bertram, Lord of Gillham, came to the fore. He carried a casket of wine from his own cellar, and he set this at my feet. This seemed to be an agreed-upon signal, for all the others set down their own burdens. I forgot decorum and exclaimed, "What is this, Bertram?"

"For the people of Maelyss, Your Highness," he answered, bowing. "Supplies to support our ambassadors there." This did not seem so surprising to me, so I merely nodded, ready to give my thanks, but then he continued, "And to assist the giants, because we know how difficult the first year is, in the settlement of a village."

My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the throne. For several long moments my mouth opened and closed soundlessly; I could find no words beyond a faint "thank you." My father stepped forward for the first time then; he scanned the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, before finally settling his gaze on Bertram. "Bertram, I see your organizational skills at work here, and I thank you." Then he raised his voice so all could hear: "The cream of Aramore's crop stands here today, literally and figuratively. I am deeply touched, but I am not surprised. My people, you do us proud. You represent the best of humanity: our productivity, our creativity, our inventiveness, our generosity and compassion, and most of all, foresight, for these gifts you bring today will come back to us tenfold, solidifying the bonds of friendship with this new nation. My people, you have my gratitude and my respect." And then he and my mother came down from the dais—I stumbled behind them—and walked among the donors, admiring the gifts and personally thanking the each giver.

As I recall the sight, I'm brushing away tears. I am so, so proud of our people. When you told me of Ramsgate's contribution, I was touched, but I thought it was an anomaly. Perhaps, I thought, Ramsgate's gifts had more to do with the town's affection for Bae and Morraine than for tender feelings for the giants. But now I know I was wrong, and I am delighted to be so. This is what being human means, I think. And I'm sure the giants will agree.

You should have been here to see this, Rumple. It would have thrilled you to the marrow. You really should have been here.

Yours,

Belle

My dear Belle,

As the town grows, so does the complexity of its problems, and I find my services as a contracts writer in increasing demand. With the extra income, I decided to build an extension onto my little house. That may seem wasteful, now that it's just me and Midnight here, but I am determined that whenever Bae and Morraine return to visit, they will not have to stay at the inn. And so I bought building supplies and made inquiries about hiring workers, but Fort and Luke put a quick end to that. "What, don't you trust us with a hammer?" Luke snorted at me, and I came to understand that they had expected to be asked to help me with the construction. I have never had someone I could ask such favors of, and now I find I have two who will gladly help. It's a remarkable thing, Belle, friendship is. Truly remarkable. I promise you, I will never take yours or theirs for granted.

Rumple

Dearest Rumple,

I've just come back from the Green Mountains, where I learned that Aurora's engagement to Gaston is indeed a matter of money. Aurora was placed between a rock and a hard place: let her kingdom suffer or marry a man she detests. Those who think royals have it easy would be shocked if they knew the reasons behind most royal marriages. But I introduced to Stephan the truth of Gaston, which gave His Majesty pause. I fear that this will not be the last marriage for money that Stephan tries to make for her, but at least, Aurora is spared from Gaston. She is a tender and naive girl, not at all clever or manipulative. Imagine what marriage to Gaston would have done to her. Imagine what Gaston would have done to her kingdom.

Upon learning this news, Gaston claimed to be heartbroken and insulted. Well, his heart mended fast because two days later he was engaged to a duchess.

yours,

Belle

Hello, Papa!

Papa, I know you share our letters with Belle and Fort, that's why I'm putting this separate page in with our letter. Please don't let anyone else see it. Not that it's anything bad! Just private. And embarrassing I guess. Anyway, remember that talk you and me had on the night before my wedding, about how to avoid pregnancy. Well, Raine and me have been doing like you said—I mean about the one thing, not the not sleeping together thing. We love each other after all! Anyway, sometimes we slip up and forget, and we're worried because, not that we don't want kids! Of course we do but not yet. I mean, we don't even have a house yet. And no doctors. I heard something about some plant that if a woman eats the seeds she can prevent pregnancy. You know a lot about plants, Papa. What can you tell me about those seeds?

Love you,

Bae

My dear Belle,

I am happy for your friend that she escaped those bear claws that Gaston calls fists. It's certain that the woman who's burdened with him will go to heaven, because she surely will have suffered her hell here on earth.

Thank you for sending me An Essay on Ethics. I am reading it slowly, as it is much to take in. You would be amused to see that this very scholarly book is having something of an impact on Ramsgate. To give me something to talk about when I visit the tavern (for I still find conversation uncomfortable with any but Luke and Fort), I have been distilling the book's ideas and then introducing them over ale. Whether farmer, carter, baker or miller, everyone has strong opinions on matters of right and wrong. The tavern keeper encourages these discussions because, as he says, the deeper the discussion, the freer the flow of drink. The new barmaid, hired to encourage greater consumption with her youthful flirtations and her comely figure, has surprised us all with her perceptive contributions to the conversation. Her inability to read doesn't hinder her ability to grasp complex concepts. I have offered to teach her to read, but have not succeeded in convincing her that education is not above her station. The interest with which she eyes the book suggests to me she will someday soon accept my offer.

And so our Fridays have become, thanks to your book, an exercise of the mind as well as the tankard-lifting arm. When I enter the Hog's Head, the customers greet me now with "What ho, Spinner, what's the topic tonight?" The book and these conversations have given me much to think about, which makes me feel Bae's absence a little less.

With your next letter, would you please send another, similar book? I would appreciate as well a book about the medicinal properties of plants, particularly those such as Queen Anne's lace that have proven effective in preventing fertility in humans.

I have had a letter from Morraine and Bae. They are well, though sleeping in a tent. Our ambassadors are working together, alongside some of the giants, to build houses. They began with houses for those who have children; Janshai and Ely were the first to be housed. They are erecting houses made of wattle and daub, rather than stone or wood, because the work goes faster. The materials, at least, are familiar to Bae, as it's what's used for most houses in Ramsgate, but it's proportions that the humans struggle with. Everything must be three times the size that a human would build. The humans can't seem to get the hang of this—when Bae was constructing shutters for one of Janshai's windows, he forgot and built the first set much too small. Janshai merely suggested setting those shutters aside until they would begin the first human-sized house. Our ambassadors have learned to step down, letting the giants take the lead in drawing plans and measuring. In the time they've worked together, the humans and the giants have become more efficient and are now able to erect a four-room house in a week.

Bae enjoys the work; he has always enjoyed working outdoors and can work magic with a saw and a hammer. When he was a child he struggled to learn to spin, but he never had the patience. Morraine, on the other hand, does, and has taken over cloth-making duties for both the humans and the giants. They are excited about creating a new community. They are happy.

Rumple

Dear Sir,

Enclosed are the two books you requested.

Best wishes,

Belle

Dear Belle,

Thank you for the books. With this letter I am returning An Essay on Ethics. The scholars of Avonlea would find this amusing, I'm sure, but what they would call a "literary salon" seems to have sprung up at the Hog's Head. We gather on Friday evenings for a pint and a discussion. Initially we chose our topics from Essay. We spent three nights pondering over the question of whether there is such a thing as destiny, and if so, are we slaves to it. We spent a month debating whether man has a soul and what happens to it after death. What does man owe to his fellow man nearly led to a fistfight, as the richer among us felt that, having worked hard to earn what they have, they deserve to enjoy the fruits of their labors. It would not be fair, they argued, for them to be required to share with people who have not worked as hard. Only the intervention of the intrepid Tilda prevented bloodshed. Though small in stature, she commands the room when she speaks. With a wink and a word, she had two towering men shaking hands and apologizing to each other—then buying drinks for the house to compensate for the disturbance.

On the heels of this discussion came the announcement from His Grace that a school will be built in Ramsgate next year, and that for a small tuition, any child may attend. And then a fistfight at the tavern truly did break out, as Boleslaw, who owns the largest and most profitable farm in the territory, declared that he would refuse to pay the increased taxes that will pay for the school (although he had no problem with his children mingling with the offspring of the poor; after all, he mingles with us peasants every Friday at the tavern). The blacksmith did not take kindly to this refusal, and ere long the both of them were five coppers poorer for the table and chairs they broke during their fistfight.

This week, we plan a more civilized topic for our "salon": do gods exist and if so, must we obey them?

Rumple

My dear Belle,

As I grow older I find that my back and my ankle aren't able to tolerate long hours at the wheel. I am not able to spin as much as I used to, but with Bae gone, I need less income and my legal work provides sufficient for most of my needs. You would be pleased with another aspect of the legal work, Belle: it requires me to leave my house and go out into the village, talking to people. This aspect of the work has gotten no easier with practice. But I do enjoy the quieter aspects of the work, reading and learning about the law, and conceiving ways to apply it to everyday life.

It also fires my blood. For, the more I talk to people, the more I realize that the law is often inadequate, and the more compelled I feel to change it. Belle, it is not my place to question the Crown's decisions. I am uneducated, raised a peasant, the son of a criminal. I could not stand alongside your father's legal advisors. But I also know your father listens to the voice of the people, and with all the discussions you and I have had, I know you will permit me to share my opinions. Belle, there is much work that needs to be done to protect innocent lives. Your father has accomplished much by changing the law so that it protects children and animals against beatings, and the people applaud him for that, but more changes are needed. The more contracts I draw, the clearer that becomes.

This week, for instance, Enndolyn came to me for assistance. You will remember her husband as the maker of those wonderful rolls. Falk passed away suddenly, leaving behind no male children and thus no heir for his business. A half-brother has emerged, but during their lifetimes Falk had no involvement with him, nor wanted any, as their mutual father had deserted Falk and his mother to marry this other woman. The brother arrived in Ramsgate two weeks ago and immediately stormed into the bakery, demanding that Enndolyn pack her things and go, because the bakery now belonged to him. And by law, he is correct. It is wrong, Belle, wrong ethically (the philosopher-drinkers at the Hog's Head are in complete agreement on this) and wrong from a business sense, because this brother never kneaded an ounce of dough in his life, nor has he ever sold so much as a biscuit. He pushed Enndolyn from her home (at the back of the bakery) and deprived her of her livelihood. She is living now on Fort's farm, but she was not meant for farm work. In the short time he has been here, the brother has run the business to the ground. The entire village will pay the price for his stupidity and arrogance. Not only will we lose our only bakery, but we will lose one of the largest contributors to our tax base.

I have been attempting to negotiate a contract with the brother that will guarantee Enndolyn half the income from the bakery in return for her running it. As the brother is spending far more that he is taking in, I believe I will be successful (especially with Fort standing behind me as I negotiate). But this should not be necessary. I know you will agree with me, Belle, the law must be changed: widows must be permitted to inherit their husbands' property. Women must be permitted to own businesses.

Belle, is there in your library a book of the laws of lands more progressive than ours? With a precedent to follow, I believe you and I could write a convincing argument to present to your father's advisors. Shall we begin our research, Belle? Shall the Ogre Experts become activists?

Rumple

My dear Belle,

It has been two weeks since your last letter. I'm worried. Are you ill?

Rumple