The Artists of Emerald Manor

The envelope appeared on Elle's doorstep on the first day of summer. The paper was dark green, with her name inscribed on its back in long, looping, luxurious letters. It smelled faintly of the deep furrows of the forest—like moss and dew and bark—as if spritzed with earthy perfume. There was no return address.

She turned it over in her hands, the thick cotton paper soft between her fingers. It was fastened shut with a wax seal, imprinted with a small insignia of a sprawling mansion in a dense wood. She carefully cracked it open and pulled out the letter concealed inside. The note was short, hand-written in black ink, with the same elegant calligraphy that was on the back of the envelope.

Dear Eleanor,

Congratulations! You have been selected for a highly-competitive art residency at Emerald Manor. For six weeks, you will be living and working in the Musical Wing. Please be packed and ready by noon on June 29th, as a driver will arrive at your address to collect you and bring you to the Manor.

We look forward to your arrival.

The note wasn't signed.

She let herself wonder, for just a moment, how excited her mother must've been when this same envelope arrived at her doorstep thirteen years ago. She imagined her mother running her fingers along the smooth paper, holding it up to her nose, inhaling its rich earthy fragrance. Elle pictured the smile that must have stretched across her mother's face as she gently cracked open the seal and read the message—a smile as bright and beaming as it was in the fading folds of Elle's earliest memories.

Elle snapped a picture of the letter and then, regrettably, tore the exquisite note to shreds, stuffing it into the bottom of the trash, ensuring no whiff of its earthy scent could be smelled and no hint of its forest-green paper could be seen.

Then she went upstairs to start packing.

𖧝

Her father was in his office when she went to say goodbye. The room looked like the inside of his mind might look—a small, dark room, more cozy than claustrophobic. Wooden bookshelves of varying shades hugged the walls. Every single book in this room, as far as Elle knew, was a book of poetry. To the unfamiliar eye, it might appear that the books weren't organized in any way, but Elle knew that her father kept his favorite poets at the top of the shelves—Dickinson, Wilde, Millay—and the ones he didn't read as often near the bottom. A permanent resident of the bottom shelf was Charles Bukowski. Her father had said once, "You have to be in the right mood to read Bukowski."

He kept one copy of each of his own published works on his desk, stacked on top of one another.

There was only one window in the office. Sunlight tried to punch its way into the room, but its warm yellow light was muffled by heavy curtains. The room would've been completely dark if it wasn't for the candles lining every inch of open tablespace, giving off gentle orange glows and soft smells like lilac and vanilla.

Elle's eyes found her father. He was bent over his desk, as he always was, sitting in his big gray chair, scribbling poems in his journal.

On the wall above his desk, there was a framed black-and-white photo of Elle and her —but they were at the beach. Little Elle held a piece of sea glass up to the camera, and her mother held a heart-shaped rock. There was that bright and beaming smile.

Elle knocked on the wall, startling her father from his concentration.

"I'm leaving soon, dad," she said.

He turned around in his chair and pulled his glasses off, squinting up at her. "What? Where are you going?" His voice was deep and gruff and quiet, like faraway thunder.