Hello there,
Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Moonlight at Misdarwis.
My unofficial,
Independent,
Fan-written sequel.
To the Blue Castle which was published a hundred years ago back in 1926 by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery.
If you've been listening along to Moonlight that my Star Wars,
I do hope you're enjoying it.
If you haven't yet heard the preceding parts of this story,
You can certainly look for the playlist for Moonlight at Miss Star Wars and you'll find all of the chapters there in order.
You can also find my playlist for The Blue Castle.
There are also long form tracks with all of the book chapters strung together into a continuous track to hopefully last throughout the night and help you stay asleep.
Now,
Let's just take a moment here to have a nice,
Deep exhale.
Letting go of the day.
Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.
For right now,
There's nowhere else we have to go.
And nothing else we have to be doing.
So we can just relax,
Get ourselves comfortable,
And enjoy the next installment of Moonlight at Miss Starwes.
Chapter 26 The Moon at Your Shoulder The first letter arrived with a Toronto postmark,
The address written in Olive's familiar looping hand.
Valancy opened it slowly,
As though she were unwrapping something delicate and rare.
My dear Valancy.
I can scarcely believe I am writing this from a narrow little room in Aunt Josephine's great Toronto house,
Only two streets away from the Academy.
My window looks out upon a tangle of chimneys and roofs.
The room itself smells faintly of varnish and boiled cabbage from the kitchen below.
But I hardly mind for it means that I am here.
Classes began only yesterday.
Yet already my head is buzzing.
Imagine me,
With a stick of charcoal in hand,
Sketching a plaster cast of some Roman nose,
And being told by a severe-looking man with spectacles that my lines are confident.
Confident,
I nearly dropped the charcoal from shock.
He added that I ought not to smudge so boldly across the page,
But I do think his voice had softened just slightly when he said it.
The air of the studios is thick with turpentine and damp canvas.
Models stand in curious attitudes,
As though frozen mid-dance or half-asleep.
At first I thought I might laugh at them.
But then.
.
.
I found myself sketching furiously.
Desperate to catch the strange poetry of their limbs.
I confess I feel terribly out of place amongst all these students who chatter of Paris and Munich as though they had been born there.
Their hands are perpetually streaked with colour,
Their coats spotted with paint.
I cannot remember when I last felt so thoroughly alive.
And for Lancey,
Someone actually admired a sketch I made.
It was only a fellow student,
A thin young man with reddish hair,
Who leaned over and said,
I had caught the angle of the shoulder.
Well.
I cannot decide if he meant it or if he was merely being polite,
But his eyes shone when he spoke.
And I did find it encouraging.
At night,
The house grows silent,
Save for the occasional creak of footsteps in the hall.
I sit with my lamp.
And sketchbook.
My fingers blackened with charcoal.
My heart.
Somehow both lonelier and freer than it has ever been.
I keep the clear marble from Windward on the sill beside my lamp.
It catches the city lights rather prettily and the silly little red ribbon still marks a page in my sketchbook.
I cannot quite bring myself to take it out.
I must stop before the ink blots further.
Tell me of Mistawis,
Of the crows and cats and the lake.
My heart longs to see the silver ripple of water again,
Even if only in your words.
With love.
Olive.
P.
S.
When I unpacked my trunk,
I discovered amongst my stockings an entirely unexplained bottle of Dr Redfern's purple pills.
I assume this is your doing?
Should I find them beneficial,
I shall write and tell you so.
Valancy let out a small chuckle and held the letter to her chest for a long moment.
Before reaching for her own pen.
My dearest Olive.
How I love the picture you painted for me of your little room and the studio I can almost smell the turpentine.
Though I do prefer to imagine the colours rather than the fumes.
You sound alive in a way that I have never heard you before.
What a grand,
Wonderful adventure,
Dear cousin.
I laughed when I read that you feel both out of place and vibrantly awake.
Somehow I can picture you perfectly.
Miss Starwhisk has slipped into full autumnal glory.
The lake is a sheet of molten silver at dusk,
And the birches burn pale against the shadows.
Barney insists the cats grow fatter every day.
Banjo sprawls on the veranda rail as usual,
As though he were lord of the island.
Nip and tuck core reproachfully each morning until Barney throws in the stale crusts from his breakfast.
I'm not sure when they'll disappear again for winter.
The new John Foster book is going splendidly and keeps Barney scribbling far into the night.
He's working so hard.
To capture the moods of the moon and the lake in words,
How they shift together and apart,
How they tease and echo one another.
Sometimes I find him on the shore at midnight,
Jotting by lantern light.
He pretends to be vexed when I tease him,
But I know he is so happy,
Right?
Right now with his work.
You asked for news.
And In fact,
I am bursting with it.
But I do find myself hesitant to write the words.
Perhaps I will be braver in my next epistle.
With all affection,
Valancy.
P.
S.
How curious to hear about the purple pills.
I really don't think one ought to ask too many questions about unexpected blessings though.
They have such a tendency to vanish if examined too thoroughly.
Closely.
The letters went back and forth in this rhythm,
Olive writing with a breathless mixture of wonder and dismay,
Valancy replying with warmth and quiet steadiness,
Olive's descriptions grew fuller and more confident each time.
My dear Valancy.
I have survived my first fortnight of classes.
I can scarcely believe it.
My hands ache.
From drawing endless heads,
Hands,
Feet.
The professors insist that we learn to see before we dare to paint.
Sometimes I think I shall never see correctly.
Yet once or twice I caught a curve or shadow that made even the severe instructor nod.
There is a girl in my class with inky black hair who sketches so quickly that her lines seem to fly off the page.
She told me that she likes the way I look at things slowly.
Can you imagine anyone ever praising me for slowness?
The reddish haired fellow.
I think his name is David,
Though he mumbled it so shyly I cannot be certain.
Has taken to saving me a place beside Him.
He chatters of landscapes and sky studies and.
.
.
I listen more than I speak,
But sometimes his enthusiasm lifts me.
Yet at night I sit alone in my room,
And cry.
Though I cannot say for sure.
If it is from loneliness or.
.
.
From the sheer shock of having leapt into a life that feels nothing whatsoever.
Like deerwood.
I never thought courage ache.
So much.
But in the mornings it feels different.
Aunt Josephine sets out a modest tray of porridge,
Tea,
And sometimes a slice of warm bread,
And she always greets me with a cheerful word or two.
I step out into the bustle of the streets with my sketchbook under my arm.
And I find that queer little thrill runs through me.
For all my doubts.
I walk on as though I too belong here.
Striding towards another day of plaster casts and smudged fingers.
What is it like there now,
On the island,
In the mornings?
Do the mists still lie low upon the lake?
Yours,
Always.
PS.
While searching for my old oil paints this afternoon.
I discovered yet another bottle of purple pills tucked amongst the wrappings.
I begin to wonder whether they migrate of their own accord.
Valancy smiled wryly.
Laid Olive's letter down on the table.
And gazed across the twilight glades.
Then she reached for her pen.
My olive.
Your words make me smile and ache.
In turn.
Toronto sounds alarming and wonderful in almost equal measure.
But there you are.
Walking through it with your drawing board under your arm.
In spite of everything.
I am so glad.
The mornings here are misty indeed.
Barney paddles out early and comes back with mist beaded in his hair.
He says those quiet hours are the best for gathering notes for his book.
And the pages surely are piling up quickly.
I have news.
Of my own.
Something I have been keeping close until I could quite believe it myself.
Olive.
I am.
With child.
If all goes well.
It will be born in the spring.
I hardly dare believe it.
Yet I am truly brimming with joy,
Cousin.
I have longed for this so deeply that it feels somehow like stepping into a dream made real.
Always.
Valanci.
P.
S.
Barney says that his father would be deeply gratified to know his purple pills are traveling the country.
He also suggests that they may prove useful should Toronto suddenly be overcome by a severe shortage of purple pills.
My dearest Valancy.
I read your letter twice over and then a third time.
But I could not quite take it in.
A child?
Your child for Lancey.
I am so truly thrilled.
That I laughed aloud here in this dreary little room until Aunt Josephine knocked to see if I had lost my senses.
You talked sometimes when we were young of wanting sweet,
Fat babies.
And now.
.
.
It's happening for Lancey.
I am so sorry.
Proud of you,
Cousin.
And I am glad beyond words for both you and Barney.
When I come back to Miss Starwyce,
You must let me hold that darling baby and tell it that I am its second cousin twice removed or whatever the proper tangle of family means.
I cannot wait for Nancy.
I cannot wait.
Your news strengthens my courage even more.
Each time I falter.
I will think of you,
Rowing through the mists there at the lake,
With Barney at your side,
And a child to come.
A child!
Oh,
Rejoicing to the highest with love and joy.
I'll live.
PS.
The weather has now truly become cold enough here for winter things,
So today.
.
.
I unpacked my fur muff for the first time since arriving.
Hidden in the very centre of it was yet another bottle of.
.
.
Dr.
Redfern's purple pills.
I must confess that I am now becoming slightly afraid of my own possessions.
And what they might conceal.
Valancy smiled through tears as she read Olive's words aloud to Barney.
He whistled low,
Then snatched up her pen while she protested.
Dear Olive,
This is Barney writing,
Because Valancy went misty-eyed from your epistle.
And now.
.
.
She is not paying proper attention.
News from here.
The cats are scandalously lazy.
The crows,
Insolent as ever.
And the pantry is nearly empty of anything sweet because Moonlight eats it all before I get a look in.
If our child inherits her appetite.
I shall be ruined.
Yours in quiet desperation.
Barney.
P.
S.
How remarkable to hear of your ever-expanding purple pill supply there in Toronto.
Your father would be so proud.
He is convinced that no household is complete.
Without enough purple pills to preserve the health of a moderately-sized nation.
Give Aunt Josephine our love.
Maybe give her some purple pills,
Too.
Olive laughed when she saw the uneven scrawl.
She later answered him in the margin,
Dear Barney,
If the child has half your appetite,
And Valancy's courage,
Then you will indeed be ruined,
But happily so.
A week later,
Another envelope came.
This one from cousin Georgiana.
Glowing with delight.
My dearest Valancy.
Your letter.
Has gladdened my heart more than I can say.
A little one on the way.
My dear child.
What a blessing!
I am knitting already.
Soft greens and creams.
I must tell you that I have been boasting of you to every soul who will listen.
It is a mercy.
And a joy.
I see you settled so happily,
My dear girl,
After all the storms of the past.
Write and tell me all about how you were feeling.
Do you have your strength?
Are you eating well?
I trust that Barney is taking good care of you.
Affectionately yours.
Georgiana.
Valancy answered with warmth and gratitude,
Sending along a pressed spray of goldenrod from Mystawis.
Meanwhile,
Olive had taken up her pen to write to her mother.
Dear Mother.
You will be surprised to hear that I am well.
My days are full of study and my evenings of practice.
The professors here are demanding,
But fair.
I begin to think that Perhaps I was not wrong to come?
Do not worry yourself.
I have decent lodgings and Aunt Josephine is kind enough to make sure I eat more than toast.
The city is noisy,
But alive and well.
I walk the streets each day with purpose.
I suppose you have heard that Valancy is expecting a child in the spring.
I could not be happier for her.
With respect?
Olive.
Her mother's reply was thin and cold,
Though Olive expected no more.
Olive.
It is well you are safe.
I hope you do not neglect your health.
With all this sketching and wandering about.
I cannot say I approve of your choices.
But as you are determined.
.
.
I must let matters take their course.
As for Valancy,
I am aware of her condition.
There is much talk of it in Deerwood.
I trust she knows what she is about.
You may give her my formal congratulations,
Though she has chosen her own path,
Apart from her family.
Your mother.
Olive folded the letter without sighing.
She tucked it into her drawer,
As one might tuck away a used envelope.
Acknowledged,
But without weight.
Her sketchbook lay beside the writing paper on the desk.
The faded red ribbon still marked one of its pages.
Olive touched it briefly,
Then drew out a fresh sheet of writing paper and reached for her pen.
She wrote again to Valancy.
Late at night when her lamp burned low.
Valancy,
Dear.
Mother sends you a cool word of congratulations.
I cannot care much for it.
My heart aches.
Is too full of delight for you.
Every time I pass the window of a baby shop here,
I stop.
To look at the tiny shoes and bonnets.
Imagine.
Classes here are harder than ever.
The instructors speak of light.
As though it were a living thing.
And demand that we chase it onto the page.
I am not always equal to the task.
Yet sometimes I do manage to capture something to which My whole soul thrills.
In the evenings I walk past the river here in the city and I think of Miss Starwiss.
I picture you standing with the moon at your shoulder.
And somehow I.
.
.
Feel less alone.
Yours.
Always.
Olive.
PS.
Your latest letter shed no fewer than sixteen loose purple pills onto my lap.
The moment I opened it.
The young lady opposite me in Aunt Josephine's parlour looked quite alarmed.
Of course,
I offered her some.
Immediately.
She.
Declined.
Valanci's handwriting grew rounder as the weeks passed,
The lines sprawling more generously across the page.
My dearest Olive.
Well,
I grow larger by the week.
And Barney says that I must soon be rolled about the island like a barrel.
At first,
I could scarcely keep food in me,
But now the sickness has eased and I find myself actually hungry again.
What a joy to finally eat properly again.
Apples taste like shit.
Ambrosia.
Bread,
Like a feast.
And the thought of tea no longer turns me green.
Barney spends his evenings between his book and his pet project,
A little crib for the baby.
He insists that it must be strong enough to hold a dozen babes,
Though I hope he will not test that.
Just one sweet little fat baby to begin with will be more than enough for me.
I watch Barney,
Measuring and hammering.
And I think I have never seen him happier.
We see Eliza Gray and her children from time to time.
They have settled so well into the cottage now,
And send you their fondest greetings.
The children come running when we arrive with baskets of bread and preserves.
Eliza looks less worn.
And of course,
As a mother of six,
She has no shortage of advice for me about child rearing.
Some of it very practical indeed.
Your sketch still hangs in pride of place on their wall and it seems to brighten the whole room.
The children always point at it and ask when Miss Olive will be back.
Keen for you to return to draw them again,
The little dears.
I feel the child move sometimes.
Just a whisper,
Like the brush of wings.
It startles me with joy each time.
Yours always.
For the latency.
PS.
I am sorry to hear that your fellow boarder declined your very kind offer of purple pills.
Perhaps you could try paying the landlady with them.
Olive read the letter with mist in her eyes and an ache in her heart.
Then set her pen to paper.
Dearest Valancy,
Your words make my heart dance.
To think of you growing so beautifully and Barney hammering away at a darling little crib.
While the cats look on suspiciously.
I can almost see it.
The thought of that little life stirring within you fills me with such gladness.
It often carries me through the days here.
When things can otherwise seem.
.
.
A little notch.
I,
Too,
Have something new to confess.
The reddish-haired fellow I wrote of,
His name truly is David,
I have learned,
Has become dearer to me than I I ever expected.
He is not.
Dazzling or grand.
He listens with such attentiveness.
I forget my shyness.
We walk together sometimes after class.
And he speaks of skies and shadows as though they were friends.
Yesterday he carried my books without asking and I found myself smiling the whole way back.
I.
.
.
Do not know what this is.
I only know that it feels like.
The start of something I have not known before.
Ever your cousin.
Olive.
PS.
In the interests of scientific inquiry,
I offered Aunt Josephine a bottle of Dr Redfern's Purple Pills towards this month's board.
Shee!
Declined.
Rather.
Emphatically.
But not all letters carried such sweetness.
One arrived on thin paper from Valancy's mother,
The handwriting sharp with unease.
Valancy.
I must tell you that I am so concerned about your condition.
You must be careful.
Many things can go wrong.
Women die of such ventures every day.
You are not strong.
And you were also always fanciful.
Do not let this blind you.
Avoid stairs.
Do not overheat yourself with canning and preserves.
For heaven's sake,
Do not row out upon the lake.
Above all,
Do not neglect to consult a proper doctor.
I know you think Barney is clever,
But this is certainly not a matter for scribblers.
Everyone in the clan is endlessly concerned.
They say you were never made for this,
That you have always been so delicate of health.
And I simply cannot bear the thought of any misfortune.
I am so very anxious for you.
Though of course you never heed my advice.
Valancy laid the letter aside with a faint smile and reached for a fresh sheet of paper.
Olive.
Do not let my mother or other clan members' threats disturb you,
If they write.
I am well.
The lake is calm,
The air is sweet,
The child is strong.
Barney is beside me always,
Whether with pen or hammer in hand,
Or merely with his trusting smile.
As for your David,
I shall reserve judgment until I meet him.
But anyone who carries your books without being asked may perhaps be permitted a favourable beginning.
Write soon and tell me everything.
With love.
For Lancey.
P.
S.
I remain convinced that Dr.
Redfern's purple pills will one day be accepted as legal tender.
Visionaries are seldom appreciated in their own lifetime.
I am also becoming slightly anxious that your supply of purple pills may be dwindling.
So naturally,
I have enclosed another bottle.
Furthermore,
I have the distinct impression that there is still one place in your luggage you haven't thought to examine.
Have you really found no use for your travelling rug yet?
Olive folded the letter with a smile and rested her head against the windowpane.
Below,
The city street rattled on with carriages.
