by Inspector (retired) Wren
Posted from Mallorca, Dec 27th

I’ve been getting letters.

Not just from Veronica — though she writes the most. Long ones, beautifully penned, sometimes scented with something I can’t place. She says it’s a “herbal distillation of thought.” I think it’s patchouli and ink. She signs them “V.” Not “Veronica,” never “love,” just “V.” Like a signature on a spy memo. Which, given the lives we’ve all had lately, wouldn’t be far off.

Sylvia and Lillian write too. Postcards. Spells, probably. Their handwriting shifts under the sun like it’s alive. I’ve stopped leaving them on the table overnight.

But I read them. Every one. Even aloud, sometimes, when the wine’s good.

And now — Henry James. That’s the theme of the season, apparently. They’ve moved on from Woolf (thank the gods), and I’ve been urged — instructed, if we’re being honest — to “consider James.”

So I did.

First: Daisy Miller. A slim little punch of scandal. Daisy flirts, dances, dies. End of story. But it’s the in-between that haunts — the American girl in Europe, misunderstood, misread, misjudged. Dying more from society’s cruelty than Roman fever. I read it on the terrace and thought, Was this Veronica, once upon a time?

Except Veronica didn’t die.

No, she married Howard. Then unmade him. Then gave Cassandra her keys. Then fled the scene.

Maybe Veronica’s not Daisy.
Maybe she’s Daisy’s vengeance.

But then The Bostonians. God help me.

If Daisy made me uncomfortable, this one just made me squirm. Two women in love with each other but not saying it. One man trying to control them both. Everyone pretending they’re not who they are. All of it thick with Boston virtue and unspoken sins. It’s… exhausting.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about Verena Tarrant — the idealistic, gifted young woman caught between Olive’s obsession and Basil’s control. And Olive Chancellor — ambitious, lonely, determined to shape the world in her image, using Verena as her instrument.

And suddenly I thought: Cassandra.

And Veronica.

Don’t get me wrong — I don’t think Veronica loved Cassandra the way Olive loved Verena. But… I think she neededher. Crafted her. Groomed her, if I’m being harsh.

And Cassandra — God, she’s no Daisy Miller either. She’s not innocent. Not pure. But she is… impressionable.Capable of surprising loyalty. And silence.

And now? If I’m right — and I usually am — Veronica’s back in Cornwall. Not far from Sylvia and Lillian. Not far from her.

London can’t be far off.

The races are about to begin.

And me? I’m not out of this yet, am I? No matter how far the sun shines or how good the sherry is.

Besides… I still haven’t answered her letters.

There’s one I keep on the windowsill — the third one she sent. The paper has curled at the edges from the sun, and the ink has faded slightly, but I can still read the last line:

“Come find me when you stop hiding.”

Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like if she walked through the olive grove toward the house, sunlight behind her, looking exactly as she did in Venice.

Then I pour myself another glass and remind myself I’ve got better sense than that.

– Wren

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