Free Letters to Zell by Camille Griep

with fried potatoes.
    Bianca ate quite a lot of it. I told her that she should be careful lest she not fit into her wedding dress and she held up her middle finger at me, like the motor coach men did when we arrived at the Magic Castle. I’ve gathered that it’s a gesture that means that the gesturer does not like what one has said or done and plans to disregard it. Or that the gesturer plans to consume your potatoes as well as hers and ask for another bottle of ketchup. One guess is as likely as the other.
    I told CeCi and Bianca about the tea I planned with Maro. CeCi didn’t say very much, and Bianca told me to cancel the date. Actually, she commanded it. But I’m finished letting Bianca boss me around. I am going to embrace my own decisions. When I don’t like something, they fall in love with that very same thing. When I change my mind, they change theirs back. While amusing for them, I find the exercise completely draining. I’m sure they didn’t think I saw them walking away after lunch, heads bent together in secret, not sparing a single thought of how that must have felt to me.
    I wonder if you know how lonely it is to have once been a part of a group and then suddenly feel as if you aren’t a part of it anymore—as if you’ve missed out on the joke and it floats around you constantly like a bee ready to sting. I can’t say I like the feeling at all. I’m sure they’d tell me it’s all in my head or that I’ve misinterpreted things or that I’m just plain wrong. You may even agree. But that won’t make it any better. I feel as if I’ve been left behind, and yet I’m still standing right here.
    If I’m honest, I suppose I’ve felt that way ever since I woke up.
    That’s why my new bulldog, Snoozer, is the perfect companion for me—he is a champion sleeper. He’s fat and brown and not yet grown into his skin. I’ll have the court artist paint a small picture to include in my next post. You’ll have to excuse my handwriting; he’s chewing on the other end of my quill as I write.
    Tonight I’m auditioning cellists for the wedding, and after that I have scheduled relations with Henry. I miss you, Zell, and I hope you’re doing all right with all the chaos life is throwing at you. I’m sure Jason will find a way to repair the house and the barn and the well. We’re very lucky not to have witches or farmhouses falling out of the sky here in Grimmland. Don’t worry, the kids will stop fighting and so will the unicorns. This is your dream and, according to CeCi, dreams never come easily.
    Love,
    Rory

The Blank Pages of Her Life
    From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
    Crystal Palace
    North Road, Grimmland
    Dear Zell,
    Worms are disgusting. In a big pile, they look like raw meat, and they don’t smell much better, either. I traded the fisherman’s wife an old tiara for two baskets. Edmund won’t notice, but Lucinda most definitely will. I’ll have to worry about that later.
    Figgy’s tree looks bigger than ever, if you can believe it. The woodcarver put new stairs in since we’d been there, which was good because things were getting a bit dicey if you ask me. Bianca brought a bottle of ketchup as a gift, a condiment for worms. When I told her she was bizarre, she told me that my trap was flapping and I should shut it.
    Figgy has switched her sentinels from those crested blue jays to a bunch of fat robins. Inspection was quicker than usual and we were hustled into her grand living room. She’s obviously been doing quite well these past few years.
    “Who, who, who comes to visit today?” said Figgy, swiveling her head from her desk to us as she threw out her traditional greeting. She’s greyer than she used to be, her plumes a bit shaggy around the edges. But those round, sharp eyes are as clear as ever. “Ah, well. If it isn’t my two favorite princesses.”
    Bianca wheeled around. “Where?”
    Figgy burst into laughter as she rose, wrapping us in her wings.
    “And Miss