April 13, 1411
Beatrix had not thought of Imisus extensively during her travels or even about her company. Perhaps it might have been a bout of wishful thinking that everything would simply be alright as Imisus had always seemed to a rather stable province but lately it seemed that no matter where one was there seemed to be turmoil and chaos. She did not think of her house there because it was by no means her home - this temporary house seemed far more cozy than what she had inherited from her marriage. And her company? In some ways she had not cared if it was run right into the ground - good riddance to her husband! Of course, she had also decided that she would like to see it prosper more under her reign than under his. That she could do better than he did. That she could be better than he ever was.
Among the days she wandered around the city she came to notice the foreign couriers who seemed to be informing foreigners from Imisus of the state of their properties and just giving people a general clue about how things were and imploring them to come back and help pick up the pieces. Sometimes they had with them letters, and it made Beatrix wonder if someone could come knocking on her door. But ah, this was a silly notion - though her papers had been forcibly checked upon her entering the city the house she was renting was not under her proper name.
But still... was it possible?
Beatrix decided that her best bet was the post office and that was exactly where she went. When she arrived it seemed like a veritable mess, but that was understandable considering the country was slowly coming out of the nationwide crisis it had faced. She inquired if there was a letter for her (with her real name) and after ten minutes of searching it turned out there was one for her! Her entire way home she felt a warmth in her heart, that someone had taken the time to write to her. When she did arrive she immeaditly sat down and ripped open the letter, voraciously skimming over its contents.
Dear Beatrix,
I pray that this letter reaches you but perhaps more importantly that this letter finds you in good health and alive. I have little idea of where you are, because I imagine like every other citizen you are scrambling to find a safe place to lay your head. Are you still in Shyregoed, Beatrix? God, there are riots and conspiracies and pray that you are not in the middle of it... Why did you leave Imisus by yourself? The world is a dangerous place and this last month proves it. The crazed Obscuvos wish to terrorize the nation and prey upon the innocent and they wouldn't have second thoughts about harming someone like you. Beatrix, please come to Imisus or at least please write back so I know that you are alright. I'm worried sick as to what might have happened to you. Well... I guess I should you about how things are here. There's nearly been a month straight of rioting and it's finally died down and it's been told that all of Imisus is in shambles. The factory is in pretty good condition. I took some precautionary measures and hired guards to ensure it wouldn't get damaged. You always said that it was of the utmost importance that everything kept functioning as it usually does. I suppose you can imagine that sales are very low with all the turmoil and the poverty but we'll pull through, don't worry. We've thought up a couple new flavours. You should come back and taste them see which ones you think we should produce. We're all worried about you, Beatrix. I've barely heard from you in the last year and I want to know everything is alright.
Please write back,
Thaddeus
In the mean time Cassadra had crawled out from the tin box and out of Beatrix's pocket and climbed to the arm of the chair. There she sat with her head cocked, looking at Beatrix. "Who is it from?" She asked softly.
Beatrix looked sad and seemed to shrink her chair due to the contents of the letter. Like every human being she wanted someone to care about her but in turn it meant that her actions could disappoint or cause worry. The last year she'd been vacant and distant; she'd forgotten that there was still someone in the world who wanted to know if she was alright. After the dreadful murder she'd witnessed she'd lived in a haze and it was only sporadically that she would write, and usually it turned out to be a mess of a letter.
"Someone who wants to know if I'm alright." She frowned, and in truth she didn't know if she had an answer to that question. And should she really bother to write if she didn't? And perhaps if she didn't he would to forget her and life would just be easier for everyone.
Perhaps it was just better for the world to forget Beatrix Amaranthe...
