Ella Enchanted Newsletter

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“Dear Char,

I have been confined to my room. I saw you come to visit and saw you leave. I waved, but you must not have seen. Father is vexed with me. It has nothing to do with you. He was insulted that I left the wedding early. Two more days remain to my sentence. Now that you are gone and I can no longer hope to tell you goodbye, it is not so terrible. I hope you will still write to me, and not only about Ayortha. I have many questions, most of them impertinent. When you were a boy, did you study with other children, or did you have tutors all to yourself? I suppose you were equally wonderful at all your subjects -- but were you? Who took care of you when you were small? When did you discover you were a prince and would someday be king? What did the knowledge mean to you? If my questions offend, please do not answer any of them. She went on to tell me about her years before her Mother died, games with her Mother and Mandy, the taste of Tonic, listening to fairy stories.” Then she made a promise,”in my next letter, I shall tell more about finishing school and the elves and Areida, my Ayorthaian friend, If you write quickly, I shall also send Mandy's and my recipe for roly-poly pudding. (Cooking is another of my accomplishments, although not taught at finishing school) You may try the recipe and astound your hosts. If you do write, pray do not address the letters to me or mark them to show that you are the correspondent. Direct your letters to Mandy. She'll see that I get them. You are shocked that I have proposed a subterfuge. My only hope is that one who flies down a stair rail as beautifully as you do can overcome his scruples in this matter. As my Ayorthaian friend would say, "Adumma ubensu enusse onsordo!" Or, please write soon.

Your impatient friend, Ella”

Then letter followed letter for the first six months of my absence. As Ella had directed, I sent my letters to Mandy, in the first one I wrote:

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“Dear Ella,

My name has been changed. Here they call me Echarmonte, which sounds more like a sneeze than a name. They can't pronounce Char, and I can't persuade them to call me Echare. They are so formal. They say "by your leave" more often than they say anything else. The Ayorthaians think before they speak, and often conclude, after lengthy meditation, that nothing need be said. The loudest beings in an Ayorthaian council are the flies. The occasional bee that finds its way in is deafening. I long for conversation. The ordinary Ayorthaians are talkative, but the nobles are not. They are kind. They smile easily. But speech for them is a single word, occasionally a phrase. Once a week they utter a complete sentence. On their birthdays they grant the world an entire paragraph. At first I chattered to fill the silence. In response, I received smiles, bows, thoughtful expressions, shrugs, and an occasional "Perhaps, by your leave." So now I keep my speeches to myself. In the garden this morning I overtook the duke of Andona. I touched his shoulder in greeting. He nodded companionably. In my mind I said, "The flowers are marvelous. That one grows in Kyrria, but that other I've never seen before. What do you call it?" In my imagination he answered me, naming the flower, saying it was the queen's favorite and that he'd be happy to give me seeds. But if I had really asked about a flower, he'd probably have continued strolling. He’d have thought, "Why does this prince clutter up a lovely day with talk, if I don't answer him, he may breathe in the sweet air, feel the gentle sun, hear the rustling leaves. Perhaps by now he regrets his question. But perhaps he thinks me rude for not answering him. However, if I speak now, I may startle him. Which would be worse? It would be worse to have him think me rude. I must speak." But, exhausted by his cogitation, he'd have energy left for only one word, the name of the flower. I'm writing nonsense. In my first letter I had hoped to impress you with my brilliant prose, but that will have to wait for my second. Not many of my imagined conversations are with the duke. Most of them are with you. I know what I would say if I were in Frell. I'd tell you at least three times how glad I was to see you. I'd speak more about Ayortha (and with fewer complaints), and I'd describe my trip here, especially our adventure when one of the packhorses shied at a rabbit and tore off. But then I might turn Ayorthaian and trail off into silence, lost in smiling at you. The trouble is, I can't guess at your response. You surprise me so often. I like to be surprised, but if I could supply your answers with confidence, I might miss you less. The remedy is obvious. You must write to me again and quickly. And again, and more quickly.

Your very good friend,

Char”

In her reply, she gave me conversation. “Greetings. How do you fare today? Lovely weather we've been having. The farmers predict rain, however. They say the crows are chattering. Ah well, wet weather will do us good, I daresay. We can't have sunny days always. Life isn't like that, is it? Wish it were. Wouldn't that be fine? Never a disappointment, never a harsh word. Don't you agree, sir? A fine fellow such as yourself, you have sense enough to see it's never that way. In one dose, I hope I have cured you of your desire for conversation.” Then she said that Dame Olga had recently held a cotillion, and described it. My reply was that the Ayorthaians didn't have balls. “They have "sings," which are held monthly. Three or four Ayorthaians at a time occupy the stage in turn and sing long, sad ballads or happy tunes or funny ones, joined by the whole throng in the choruses. The entire populace knows thousands of songs, and there is hardly a mediocre voice among them. Sound gushes forth from somewhere deep, their toes or their souls. For the last song, a paean to the rising sun (because they have performed through the night), they gather their families about them. Husbands and wives and children clasp hands, tilt their heads heavenward, and release their music. And I, seated with the few other visitors, add my weak voice to theirs, humming when I can't guess the words and wishing my hands were held too. Perhaps we can come here together someday. By the way, you are a month older than the last time I saw you. Are you still too young to marry?” Char repeated the query in every letter, because

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