25 March 1718
Dear Teresa,
I feel as if the very fact of my last letter has brought a Curse upon this ship (although I do not believe in such things). We are becalmed. Having forsaken the unpredictable headwinds for a more southerly course, we now find the wind that had powered our sails these three weeks quite disappeared off the face of the Earth. ’Tis but our fourth day, not yet cause for great concern. Even after a relatively short time, though, I can see its effect upon the men.
The captain and first and second mates are huddled below deck, examining charts and deciding what recourse may be available to us I do not know what is to be done except to trust in Our Lord and the skills of our most able crew.
As I have even more time than usual, having been deprived of my opportunity to watch the men at work, I have decided to examine the gift I bear. I must do so with utmost discretion, as I am charged by my cousin with delivering it in person to its future owner without bringing undue attention to either the piece or its intended recipient.
The piece is a carving commissioned by Lord Baltimore and executed by the Royal Court Woodworker, a Mr. Grinling Gibbons. I should not have imagined that a piece of wood, however artfully molded, could change the dynamics of a political or personal relationship. But as I have learned, my cousin has developed his own approach to the art of trading favours and securing alliances.
Having cast mine own eyes upon the piece in question, I daresay it commands the power to bring to heel anyone into whose possession it falls. I took the liberty to show it to Dr. Bell. That gentleman insists it is unlike anything any English artist has hitherto been inspired to create.
Not being inclined towards the Arts, I cannot vouchsafe that observation. Nor am I acquainted with other works created by Mr. Gibbons. Yet even to my untested eye, this Bird is a singular piece. I trust my efforts to describe it will meet your more refined standards.
A small bird rests within the palm of an outstretched hand that appears to belong to a young woman. The bird is delicately rendered, life-like and yet not ornate. A few deft cuts indicate a wing here, a beak there. The simple lines suggest a degree of life I would not have believed possible in an inanimate object, as if the bird might take flight at any moment.
The figure has been wrought from an exotic wood, deep brown in colour with a touch of red and a subtly varied grain that give it further depth. Doctor Bell has identified it as sapele, a sort of mahogany found in the East German African colonies. Although I cannot fathom how he knows this, I am learning that Thaddeus Bell is in possession of a great many facts as well as countless theories.
Mr. Gibbons has created but a single eye so piercing one feels one is being watched by a wild animal. The brightness of the orb is enhanced by the use of an impressive gemstone of deep penetrating blue. Captain Digg, whom I confess has also seen the item, has identified it as a rare sapphire from the northern part of India.
The carving is housed within a closed cage made of a reddish metal and fitted with a lock whose key I keep on my person at all times. It cannot otherwise be opened. A fine silk cloth covers the cage, in order to give the illusion of transporting a live creature.
All in all, a most remarkable, not to say extravagant, gift that speaks of profound gratitude. Governor Hart deserves no less. He has been stalwart in supporting our family when others have vowed harm to the Calverts, and his loyalty has not gone unnoticed.
As I write this, I sense upon my neck the faintest stirring of air. It may be my imagination at work. One can only hope.
I think of you constantly. Until my return, I hope my words may provide some amusement.
Your loving fiancé,
William
knowledge, nevertheless sent a shiver up my spine. Just because spy organizations sell divisions to private companies doesn’t mean we’re safer from prying eyes. Forget the NSA; Google probably owns more satellites, or it soon will. Ever since those adorable little camera mounted cars started patrolling our streets in order to keep Google Maps updated, privacy became a quaint notion associated with a time of horse-drawn buggies and night-time skies that were filled with actual stars.
Using Google Earth, I took a virtual stroll up and down Bourbon. I had already mapped a route for my characters and noted the places they passed and what they might see as they looked around. Then I moved to the side streets, looking for alleys or back lots. A food market looked promising but swooping in, I saw no street access to the back. A left turn down another side street revealed a recessed driveway with a gate that was sometimes locked, sometimes unlocked. My crime could take place behind that gate. The perpetrator could then either walk back to Bourbon or choose a parallel street and make his way down to one of two streetcar lines.
Earth. Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t think it’s a substitute for a real visit. I plan to return soon, to walk the streets my characters walk, peek into doorways and stop into shops, ride the streetcar again and sit in Jackson Square on a sultry afternoon eating a beignet. I need to smell the velvety air, feel the humidity settle on me like a sweater and absorb the uniquely mystical, magical, musical atmosphere that is the Big Easy. When the schedule clears and the airfare drops, I’ll be there. In the meantime, Earth to Google: let’s go for a walk.