Dearest Nadia,

I am honored and thrilled that you decided to use some of my fabric! And delighted, of course, to learn you’ve made such an adorable accessory with it. How I look forward to seeing it in person (though written descriptions will suffice for now). And might I say — I believe longer hair will suit you wonderfully. You’d look very demure, almost doll-like. I can only imagine what lovely things you might allow me to do with your hair: brushing it, braiding it, adorning it with ribbons… the only issue is that my efforts will be certain to drive your hopeless, mediocre suitors wild with desire!

With respect to your illuminating dream and my spells: I am pleasantly surprised to hear you wouldn’t be upset should your suspicions be correct. You give me far too much credit, however, if you really think I’m talented enough to beguile someone as independent and headstrong as yourself. It’s sort of adorable how you’d suspect me so easily; you really do think too much sometimes. Who knows — maybe that Tabatha drove you insane with her blather? Of course you must know I care about you far too deeply to do something as crass as flagrantly violate your mind! (I do hope you’ll forgive the torn parchment just now. The idea that you’d find me capable of an act so horrid exposed some frustration I hadn’t realized I’d been harboring. I must have been pressing my hand too firmly down. I have calmed down considerably before resuming this message: my dear classmate popped over at just the right time to offer herself as a scapegoat for my lingering resentment.)

With the knowledge that I lack the ability to do as you’re suggesting (and my reminder that I cherish our friendship above any possible ulterior motive), perhaps it might be worth dissecting this dream? Not the macabre kind of dissection, of course — what I mean is that it might be prudent for you to sit and ponder why exactly this lurid fantasy might have visited upon you. Is there something missing from your life? Some form of passion, adventure, perhaps even lust? You can only be an apprentice blacksmith for so long. Are you getting restless, Nadia? Please be assured that you will always have a place in my heart. We shall surely meet at the end of my semester, though whether I come to you or you come to me remains to be seen.

Regardless of their plausibility, I understand your concerns. It must have been deeply shocking to experience such a compelling dream completely out of the blue; it’s obvious why you’d assume its relation to the seal on my previous letter was no coincidence. So, in light of all that, I used a simple press this time. No engraving, simply a press with a blank seal — though I’m happy to go back to my little designs in the future — just so you won’t have to worry about any unusual effects, welcome or not.

I will understand completely if you decide not to use the candle for the time being while your stirring mind slows back down. At the same time, it would mean a lot to me if you returned to lighting it eventually. This gift of mine was meant to aid you in obtaining peaceful rest, not to torment you… and the wax, as it happens, cost me a pretty penny. Either way, I wish you both peace of mind and a swift recovery.

Most, most sincerely,

Carmilla

Carmilla,

I’m choosing to believe you about the dream not being your intention (and like I’m pretty sure I said, it wasn’t a “violation”. I’m not going to get all hysterical over one mildly unsettling dream, I’m a grown-ass woman). Maybe somebody else hexed the candle without you knowing, maybe it got enchanted by accident, maybe it really is just sheer coincidence — whatever it was, we’ll set it aside. Let’s not ignore, however, the fact that you’re tip-toeing right up to the edge of re-opening the Adder Creek conversation, which you’ve promised me you wouldn’t do. So, without explicitly re-opening it myself, I’m just going to emphasize: I said what I meant, I meant what I said, and my answer hasn’t changed. Believe me, I’d be thrilled to say that it has! But it hasn’t. I genuinely don’t have what you’re looking for. I’m still waiting for the right person, and you seem to be drowning in available bachelorettes… please, let’s not do this again, Millie. It’ll be less painful for both of us.

Sorry, this letter is going to be a shorter one. I can’t seem to concentrate lately. Haven’t been sleeping well, and the sleep I have gotten has been jumbled up by echoes of that crescent moon dream. Even when I’m awake, sometimes I’ll just space out and start processing it again, like it’s food my brain is struggling to digest. Frankly, I’m much more inclined to believe the confusion is over my being temporarily able-bodied again, rather than me out-of-nowhere developing an attraction to the same sex. Either way, I’ll figure it out eventually, probably. Plenty of time to think on it at the counter, which feels more and more like a prison cell every day.

I’d love to come visit you, Millie, but unless you send me some kind of magical cure for these burns I’m still not fit to travel for another month and a half, absolute bare minimum. Every day I try to walk again and immediately end up regretting it. I’ll cut off the complaining there because there’s nothing new, just more of the same.

Tabatha’s finally engaged to Franz — and pregnant. So that’s that little mystery solved. She seems genuinely thrilled about how everything’s shaking out, and despite my misgivings I’m happy for her. You’re invited to the wedding, which is in two weeks (I’m sure you can’t attend because of school, but hey, the bride-to-be wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome).

Maybe things will get on a better track if we change topics a little more. How are your classes? Who’s your favorite instructor? Any wacky wizardly mishaps? I’d share anecdotes of my own, but you know; I’m basically just watching paint dry. Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

Your friend,

Nadia

Oh, my dearest Nadia,

How it wounds me to have exhumed such unpleasant memories from our past! Though I must admit: I remember things quite differently. I don’t recall you ever giving me such a clear denial; from what I remember, you meant to leave things more open-ended, some vague “let me think about it” or “can we play it by ear” or similar. Even now, you claim that you would be thrilled if you did, perhaps, develop feelings for a woman (said woman of course being your devoted childhood friend and companion). What was it, exactly, that you remember telling me at Adder Creek? I ask because I suspect your recollection might not be wholly accurate. This isn’t anything to be ashamed of, I should specify. You must be exhausted from your extended recovery — you certainly sound so in your letter. Perhaps it might be worth ruminating on some more. Really look inside that little head of yours: is it telling you the truth?

Of course you want things to be easier, Nadia. I have every intent of making them easier for you — both of us, but certainly for you specifically. Personally, I think that’s quite kind of me. I expect you must be so worn out from trying to wrap your head around all of the confusing, unresolved feelings from your enlightening dream, and then using what’s left of your willpower to languish over a memory from oh so long ago (a desperate effort, in my estimation, though a valiant one). If your bed and chair feel so much like a prison, and they certainly sound like one, why not at least liberate your mind and all of these complex feelings through me, through your quill and parchment? There’s no need to drive yourself crazy trying to figure it out, sweet doll. Sometimes, not thinking truly is the best medicine. Don’t you think? If you truly want to make things easier, or “less painful” in your rather drastic words, well, why not allow me to do all the hard thinking and remembering for a while?

On another note… I did notice how, shall we say, diligently you underlined your sign-off. Did I catch some light tearing at your paper? If signing off as my friend is so upsetting to you, and I can understand why it might be, may I suggest an alternative? I’d love if you could sign your letters simply with “yours”. That should serve as a truthful reaffirmation of our bond, without any need to fret over the details. And I shall sign off accordingly as well, so no need to add another worry to your days.

your Witch,

Sorceress Carmilla

PS: Please tell me of any more sewing you’ve done. I eagerly await news of what you’ve been working on. I’ve also enclosed more thread and fabric. You should have enough by now to sew a nice dress, I believe; though, let me know if you need more.

Sorceress Carmilla,

I’m so, so sorry it took me this long to respond to your last letter. I’m not gonna lie, when I first read it, I was mad. Really, really mad. I misread your tone as condescending and took offense with your offer to remember things ‘for me’, as if you were implying I couldn’t do that on my own. Sealing the letter with an imprint of an adder also struck me as a pretty cheeky move. I seethed over everything you’d written for a while, not telling anyone else, just sitting alone with your words, trying to understand where you were coming from. I’d say that in general I have a solid memory, so what wasn’t I remembering about that fateful conversation we’d had just a few short years ago? What did you mean? The answer wasn’t coming to me, no matter how hard I tried to find it.

At least, not until I said “fuck it” and used that dream candle of yours again — this time to try and visit the past, rather than the present. Here’s what I remember about Adder Creek.

We set off on our little adventure just after dawn, because the creek’s pretty far from the village and we wanted to take our time there before heading back in the evening. You said this was going to be our most important conversation ever, and it was imperative that we be truly alone for it (you definitely used that word, imperative. I can still hear the way you said it!) We talked about random stuff on the way there, chatting and bullshitting a little, but a lot of that walk was just this weirdly comfortable quiet. You were nervous, I could tell, so I did my best to reassure you with friendly smiles and a calm attitude, and it seemed like you appreciated it. Right around midday, we put our packs down and stretched out on a blanket right up by the creek, taking a load off and then some after that monster of a hike we just did. I asked if you’d mind my going over to dip my toes in the water for a minute, but you asked me to wait until you’d said what you’d needed to say first. I laughed and said no problem, just go for it. I then gave you my full attention.

It took you a minute or two to get there, but you told me in no uncertain terms, Carmilla Thornbriar, that you loved me with all of your heart. Pure, true love — the kind they write epic poems about. And then, breathing harder than I’ve ever seen you breathe in your life, beet red in the face and hardly able to look me in the eye, you asked me if I felt the same way. I’ll be honest: I saw it coming (although considering how composed you usually are, I wasn’t expecting a level of intensity quite that high). I took your hands in mine and asked you to let me really think about my answer, because I knew I needed to say it right. After a short silence you said that was fine, so we sat and I thought for a while.

Eventually, my response: “I know your feelings for me are genuine, and come from the heart.” I know that I said that. “They’re beautiful.” I know I said that, too, because that was actually the first thing that occurred to me upon hearing your confession. “I want to return them, Carmilla, I want to.” I’m especially sure I said that, because it’s exactly what prompted your smile to start falling apart as you kept on listening. “But I don’t have those feelings, and I can’t generate them out of thin air.” Those words of mine instantly brought you to tears. I couldn’t figure out a gentler way, despite my best efforts. I kept going, though, and tried to end on a positive note. “You’re still my best friend, and I’m grateful to know you so well. I hope you can understand.” That was the last thing I said for a while.

We argued a whole bunch, after that. It got ugly. I had to convince you that no, it’s not because I “disapprove” on any kind of moral or religious basis, no, you didn’t “do something wrong”, and no, I’m not in fact obligated to explain “why not”. You took it really, really hard, Carmilla — but I could tell you were hurting, so I wasn’t planning to hold anything you said that day against you.

Just before sunset, you finally gave up. I demanded that you have a proper meal before we started heading back, because the only thing in your stomach at that point was breakfast and a substantial portion of our journey was gonna be in the dark. You relented, and we ate in silence. Silence for most of the way back, too. I tripped over some tree roots just before we got back to the village. You just kept walking instead of coming to help, but seeing as you may not have noticed, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I walked you to your home and said “see you tomorrow,” and then you just closed the door behind yourself without even looking at me. The next day, you pretended that all that sharing and bickering we did never happened, and life went back to normal for a while. Twice, in the years that followed, you pulled me aside to argue your case again — and after making it through my third time in total defending myself, I made you promise not to give it another try. And that was that. That’s what happened at Adder Creek.

So what was I missing? This is where the candle came in. As I was plummeting into sleep, taking in as much of that relaxing herbal scent as I could, I did my best to focus on the whole day, from start to finish, thinking maybe there was a gap in my recollection I’d been overlooking. But the candle didn’t point me at a gap — it pointed me at my own words, and in particular at one sentence. I felt compelled to look closer, to remember things just a little harder. “But I don’t have those feelings, and I can’t generate them out of thin air.” There. The key was there, apparently. And eventually I figured it out.

It’s not because I got the words wrong. That is precisely what I said, verbatim. (I felt my yokel levels go down, dropping that ‘verbatim’ just now.) I had the words right… but not my feelings about them. I’d forgotten what really went through my heart as I let that sentence leave my lips. See, on the surface, I remember having a stoic, dispassionate flavor of pity for you. Something like, ‘it’s not up to me, that’s just how things shook out, it’s no one’s fault, that’s life,’ and so on. I wanted to relieve myself of any responsibility, because even if I wanted to love you, I couldn’t.

Somehow — despite you obviously seeing it at the time with crystal clarity — I had overlooked the more important feeling lying directly underneath: that I wanted to love you, but couldn’t!

It didn’t make any sense. Under the circumstances, I definitely should have fallen in love with you. You’ve been nothing but kind to me since we were little kids, you’re brilliant, beautiful, talented, and motivated; who could ask for more in a partner? All of the fuel was there. Why no heat? Why no fire? Not even a single spark? And what’s killing me now is that even though I’ve finally stumbled upon the right question I still don’t have a satisfying answer, just more questions — the most pressing of them all being, “now what?” Maybe there’s just something the matter with me, like they were passing out something to us as we were born and for whatever reason I didn’t get it. That’s admittedly my best guess. I suppose a maybe-accidentally-magic candle can only grant you so much personal enlightenment…

Anyway: thank you, Carmilla. I can at least be upset about the right thing, now. You’ve helped me remember something really, really important, even though it must have been awfully hard on you emotionally. And I’m sorry for giving you grief over asking me “why not” — all this time, I should have been answering you with “seriously, I don’t know either, this sucks!” Please find it within your heart to forgive me, and I’ll put more faith in your recollections going forward.

Hell, that sure was a lot of ink. A three-pager, wow! On what remains of this final piece of parchment, some quick local news: I’m close-ish to walking again, that’s good. Mr. and Mrs. Franz Stone had a modest but all in all pleasant wedding, and send you their kind regards. Remember Adelaide, the artist? You have similarly sized hands, so she helped me fit the leather gloves I’ve included with this letter. (She also assisted with designing the new dress I’m working on, which is now halfway done at the time of writing!) Working with leather’s a step up in difficulty for me but I’m finding myself rising to the challenge. Those are the hits!

Your letters have been my most consistent source of joy, Carmilla, and I’ve been missing them dearly. Please write me back. Please?

Yours,

Nadia

Dearest Nadia,

Nadia, what a doll you are, baring your heart and soul for me on these pages. I am grateful that you decided to revisit your memories, closely examine the facts, and reprocess them in a clearer state. It seems that you’ve made quite some progress on better understanding yourself! What a phenomenal revelation to have. Please be assured, I am here to support you through every moment of this personal journey you’re embarking upon. I can’t say the passing years haven’t been hard on my soul (why else would I have pushed again not once, but twice, and longed to try again so many more times since?) but I’m grateful to have such a thoughtful and understanding companion all the same. Whatever feelings you need to share — that we need you to share — why not offer them more candidly, going forward? That way, I’ll be in a position to help you address them. Don’t you agree? Especially after all the cumulative grief over these past several weeks, you deserve — and indeed, need — the support.

Quite clever on your part to think of using the candle I crafted for you to recall our conversation with greater lucidity. I didn’t even have to suggest the idea to you! It’s good to hear you’ll soon be back on your feet once more. Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind: have you still been growing your hair out? If so, do you plan to trim it now that you’ll presumably be made to work again soon? Selfishly I hope you have no such plans, but you’ve always been a practical one, Nadia.

I hope it brings you joy and satisfaction knowing that I am indeed writing these letters wearing the lovely gloves you’ve gifted to me. Such exquisite comfort and style! My, how far your skills have come — could it be that you enjoy sewing just a tad more than blacksmithing, at this point? While I’m usually not one to give career advice (I’m more astute in matters of the heart & mind), your letter today carries a lighter, happier tone. You seem healed in spirit, even as your body does its best to catch up. I shall admit I am especially surprised and delighted to hear you’re working on a dress! Those are consistently some of the hardest projects, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now. Of course, an undertaking this significant calls for the highest grade of materials, so in the hopes that it can still be of use I’ve sent along some of my usual fine thread. I might also have splurged a bit on some particularly spectacular and fitting fabrics for you, too. Let’s just say that word has spread of my skills in our school’s… “practice room”, yes. You might be impressed to learn that I have people lining up out the door to be graced with my ruthless, sinful hand. Even the upperclasswomen have begun expressing their interest, and now regularly invite me to their exclusive evening outings. (I can swear I even see some of the professors looking in on us, every now and then.) I’ve learned quite a lot, both in and out of the classroom. Do try not to be too jealous; after all, how else will I spoil my very best friend?

Please be assured I will continue to write, as writing to you — and reading your responses in turn — is an immense source of joy and inspiration for me as well, particularly during this dull midterms season and some of the dreariest days of the year. The pleasure of our correspondence proves to be a much-needed respite from the hell of my examinations.

Adelaide seems to be a darling as well. You will have to introduce us upon my next visit! Oh, how I sincerely await it.

your Witch,

Sorceress Carmilla

Sorceress Carmilla,

You have no idea how relieved I felt when my dad finally handed me your response! I’ve been on pins and needles this whole time. Thank you for making my day, seriously. I also appreciate your encouraging me to share my feelings more openly going forward, and in fact I should prob

Actually hold on, one quick thing before that. You should be able to see from Adelaide’s sketch: my hair’s getting quite lengthy, I’m pleased to say, and I’ve been putting extra effort into keeping it nice — massaging in fancy oils and everything (Tabatha’s still a chatterbox, but I must respectfully admit, the woman knows her beauty tips). Whenever I’m wearing my headband it just feels, I dunno, easier taking good care of my body. Thinking of myself as pretty, that’s another thing that’s been easier lately. I’m curious, actually, because I don’t think I’ve ever asked, but do you th

I’ll get back to that. Do I prefer sewing over smithing these days… that’s an interesting question! I’ll keep considering it, but on the first thought my answer is “yes and no”. It’s nice that sewing usually doesn’t make you stand or move around much, and overall it’s way less physically strenuous. It’s nice that I can express myself with it more, that there’s more room for creative choices and little aesthetic fancies. More variety too; there are only so many metals a smith is going to work with on any kind of frequent basis, but endless kinds of fabric! It’s almost mind-boggling. It’s nice that there are plenty of other women in the village who are knowledgeable on the subject, including a few experts who are eager to share tips (the only smiths in town are the Smiths, of course, and boy do I know it). But at the same time, I’m currently enjoying all of my little projects in large part because I don’t really have to work. If sewing was how I made a living and I only ever got to make what customers hired me for, I suspect I’d enjoy it a lot less. Meanwhile, if I could smith “for fun” (or at least at a more reasonable pace than I’m used to), I’m sure I’d have a better time with it. So maybe it’s less ‘this form of craftwork versus that one’ and more ‘pursuing your passions versus earning your keep’.

Speaking of, kinda, I can finally walk now — just a little. Today I got from one end of my bedroom to the other without needing to take a break (absurdly painful, but worth it). I’m feeling the healing, slow but steady. That said, I’m keeping this good news to myself for now, because it’s like you’re saying: as soon as my Grandma sees me on my feet she’s gonna put a hammer in my hand and get me the fuck to work. I know this because it’s all she ever seems to talk about these days… her resentment over my injuries stings, and I’ve seriously had enough of it. I don’t remember the last time she said something even vaguely nice to me since I got injured. My thought is, why not indulge in just a little bit more leisure time before getting back to the daily slog? Make another dress or two? I have the supplies (thank you so much, these silks are amazing!!!) and I deserve it, frankly, for all I’ve been through. Please don’t tell anyone, of course. I know I’m being selfish but it’s not forever, only for now.

Look at you catching everyone’s eye in the “practice room”! It sounds like you’re really in your element, serving up sin to the beggars of your choosing. I hope this is okay to ask: what’s the big draw of… all that? I’m living with daily, constant pain, so the prospect of intentionally experiencing even more of the stuff boggles me a little. Is there some hidden aspect to it I’m missing? Or is it that they’re getting your attention, specifically? You asked me not to be jeal

I keep beating around the bush. Alright, watch this. I’m about to be so honest, it’ll blow your damn mind. Make sure you’re sitting down, now. Here goes: I realize that it’s probably impossible, but on the off chance that it’s not, it would be great if

What I’m saying is that since I’ve already agreed it’s a good idea, I’d like to try

Can you help me

I want to develop romantic feelings for you. Let’s just start there. Please be gentle with me.

Yours,

Nadia

My doll Nadia,

I am, in no small words, overjoyed to hear that you wish to learn how to feel for me. I know you have the potential to become a fierce lover of mine; I have seen it in your eyes all these years. Please be assured I will be a kind, caring mentor who will ably guide you into passion, lust, and romance: to the point that you’ll find yourself effortlessly directing all of your positive energy and effort towards me. This surely sounds scary, but what new endeavor — at least, one worth pursuing — isn’t terrifying, at first?

You seem to be taking well to not holding secrets. It’s simply not right for lovers to do so, after all. True openness might feel unnatural at the first stroke of your pen, but I’ve found one’s nature is always more flexible than it may initially appear… do forgive me if that sounds confusing. I am simply filled with joy and excitement for this new chapter in our lives!

Truly, the question of art for passion versus art for profit is one that any creator worth their salt has struggled with. That said, as I see it, blacksmithing is losing its luster for you not necessarily because you don’t enjoy it, but because your family has piled on the pressure far too high. Do you think it’s possible that their impositions have poisoned any love you had for it? The way they make it a point to harangue you over an accident in which you were the only one who suffered… I must be honest (in accordance with our policy on secrets, if you remember), it infuriates me to read about. If I could whisk you away to be my assistant, so to speak, rest assured that you would have no pressing responsibilities other than to be My precious doll and sew away to your heart’s content. I’d love nothing more than to oversee your development and watch your skills grow under my direction, by my side.

You may notice I have been calling you My doll. Has this been off-putting? You should know that this is very normal, for lovers to designate one or the other as a ‘doll’. Especially since we are both ladies, well, it simply makes it easier to distinguish us. I’m sure you’re smart enough to understand. And if you don’t, perhaps I can explain more in my next letter? Ah, there is so much to teach you of courtship, of flirtation, of the kind of desire meant only for one’s own kind. The possessiveness, well, there is of course a perfect reason for that, too— people want to feel loved. Treasured. Owned, even, by the recipient of their affection. It’s why a hopeless romantic suffering from lovesickness might only talk of their beloved, only think about them, and only want to do things for them. Why else do you think Tabatha went on and on about Franz to you for what must have been weeks (and surely felt like centuries)? Surely she must have felt so sick with adoration for him that her only available respite was to ramble at you about it. You understand what I mean, don’t you, My doll?

As for your question about pain… ah, what a perfect time to discuss this topic at length! I remember your grandmother pulled you from school early to help with the shop, so perhaps you don’t remember learning this as I did, but pleasure and pain are more closely intertwined than they may seem. They evoke similarly gratifying responses in one’s psyche and mentality — hence why many people, namely the ladies I’ve all but sliced into little bits, have begged me for more attention through their sobs. One such response is fear. How might fear bring gratification, you ask? Well, doesn’t doing something forbidden bring on a scandalous sort of excitement? Doesn’t it get your heart racing? Isn’t it so wonderfully sexy, the prospect of getting caught doing something you shouldn’t? I speak from experience when I say that the more frightened you are at first, the better things eventually feel.

To elaborate on some of my favorite ways for making cute, terrified girls feel pain-pleasure, I’ll open with my favorite: the ritual knife. Yes, the one you gave me, Nadia! I’ve repurposed it to such delectable ends, and make very, very good use of it. Frankly, it’s my favorite item in my arsenal, in no small part because wielding it brings you to mind, doll. Typically, a person sees a blade and thinks instantly of danger, of a threat to their very life; yet with a skilled hand and a cruel yet loving soul, a knife can be repurposed from a tool of horror and violence into an instrument of passion so potent it leaves one in anguish; petrified tears streaming down a face of pure ecstacy.

Of course, I can’t imagine you’re terribly drawn to the erotic potential of fire given your recent past, but there is ample reason why playing with wax and flame speaks to me so sincerely. It’s truly the hottest, most passionate way to express devotion, discipline, naked need. As a bonus, there’s nothing that weakens my knees quite like turning a lost, submissive girl into a magnificent work of art… And even better is when the flame slips from the candle, allowing her to taste the scorching of her flesh for just a fraction of a second. It sends shivers down my spine, doll.

My fellow classmates often favor tools such as whips, floggers, and canes for their fun; while certainly effective at generating raw sensation, I find percussive impact much less emotionally striking than the eros of a cut or the pathos of a burn. That said, canes in particular have their merit if only for their ravishing stinging effect. I abhor their misuse at the hands of power-hungry schoolteachers and incompetent parents, but in our humble practice room they shine in a dazzling new light — and leave marks in all shades of black, blue, and red. Oh, when you recover, how I’d love to show you all the ways pain can be pleasure! It’s so much easier than you think. You’ll just have to trust me with your pain, doll.

As per usual, I’ve sent more thread and fabric. Why yes, this fabric truly is top shelf material, isn’t it? The student council president approached me, you see, requesting my ‘services’ as she politely called them. It was quite an honor, I can tell you! Luckily, all the teachers are apparently failing to notice what I’m doing to their other pupils. A few even seem to be trying to grab my attention, or else are ineffectively pretending they aren’t staring at me! Little do they know I see the submission in their eyes, and I know they crave it — I just can’t make the first move on them myself, sadly. I happened to notice my Rituals & Bindings professor graded me much less harshly than usual on my most recent exam, at least. Interesting, right? Perhaps I’m being awarded ‘extra credit’ for one reason or another. I can imagine that the candle I sent you not long ago is running low, and I’ve also further improved my skills quite significantly since making it, so I’ve enclosed another one! It’s rather sizable, so it should last for quite a while. I truly put all my heart and soul into this candle, dear. I even grew some of the herbs in it myself, in my dormitory room. I’d love if you could light it once in the morning and once at night. Would you kindly do that for me, Nadia doll?

Additionally, I hope you won’t mind if we incorporate little “assignments” into your future correspondence. This will help you develop those tender feelings for me: feelings that will bury their way into your soul, carved in so deeply as never to lose them.

To start: why not begin by writing five ways you’d like to change for me? Surely that will set you off on the right foot. I eagerly look forward to seeing what you send to me, doll.

your Witch,

Sorceress Carmilla

Carmilla.

Are you kidding me? Is this some prank? I write to you, nervous to the point that I struggle to finish complete sentences, and openly beg you to handle me with care, and this is how you choose to respond? I can’t believe it. This is low, and I expected better of someone I consider my best friend. That’s some gratitude for the tenderness I showed you at Adder Creek, right there.

I just… I don’t even know where to start. I guess the doll thing, which, yes, I’ve noticed you repeatedly calling me that, Carmilla. I have eyes, and I’m not stupid! Honestly, it didn’t seem like anything worth calling you out on until now. I was writing it off as a kitschy little joke you were having fun sprinkling throughout our letters, like my hilarious ‘village yokel’ gag (except not as funny — I asked Adelaide, and she agrees my bit is better). But if you’re… goodness… serious about calling me that, there’s some pretty obvious baggage in play I feel obligated to unpack. If I’m “the doll”, then what are you? “The normal woman”? Do I have to learn all-new bespoke gender roles in order to play along properly? Are you sure this isn’t some sort of cultural quirk specific to the all-female society you happen to be currently living in? Folks in Amberfield don’t call each other dolls, Carmilla, and if they do they mean it as a passing tease at most. You’re an intelligent and creative individual, so I’m sure you can come up with a less unsettling term of endearment if you put your mind to it. I can see you really want to call me your doll, but before that we really need to talk about why — and if I’m okay with it!

Next, let’s talk boundaries, something you seem to have forgotten about. Are you expecting us not to have any? “Directing all of my positive energy and effort towards you”, as in, setting none aside for my own ambitions. “No pressing responsibilities other than to be your precious doll” and make clothes for you on demand. “Owned by the person they love”, which in context here means being your slave. Do you read what you’re writing before sending it to me? Do you realize how all of this comes off? Am I supposed to feel massively creeped out? You gave me homework, Carmilla! What kind of person does that to someone they truly hold dear? I read that line and my jaw hit the floor. Am I supposed to give you homework back? Why is this all so insultingly one-sided? I just don’t get it. It literally defies my understanding, and I have a feeling you know deep down how disturbing it all is.

In your previous letters, you used playful little turns of phrase to hint at all of the genuinely unhinged fun you’ve been having with your peers (and superiors too, now, apparently). I appreciated that discretion. Given my lack of relevant experience, it was considerate, and I opted not to pry in the hopes that you’d eventually drop the subject. Instead, you just got increasingly more descriptive to the point where I sometimes felt queasy reading of your grand misadventures. The sordid stuff you had me read this time around, though? Outright over the line. I know that the shit you’re doing is fucked up, and that it being fucked up is the point. I cannot stress enough that I do not have a problem with that. In theory I’m even open to taking part, despite the frankly astonishing amount of danger involved, because I don’t want to callously dismiss your closest interests out of hand. That’s how much I care about you, Carmilla. I want to learn about this new life you lead and how — and if! — I can take part in it myself. With that in mind, would it kill you to take things smoothly from walk to trot instead of careening into a full gallop the moment I show genuine curiosity about your obsession with defiling women’s bodies? How exactly are you expecting me to get used to this, to wrap my head around any of it? I had to read your letter in parts because my stomach kept turning, especially after learning what you’ve done with the knife I made for you…

I could go on, but I’ll just end up making myself even more upset. You get the picture, or at least I desperately hope you do. At the same time, please, just listen to me: this doesn’t have to be the end of our story, Millie. It shocks me to admit this, but deep down I still think we can get to where you want to be. Hell, I genuinely want to get there myself at this point, but I need you to work with me, not at me! Let’s just walk the most egregious stuff back, and turn the rest of it down a few notches. You love me, don’t you? That’s all I’m asking.

Well, that, plus a simple demonstration of good faith: we’re not keeping secrets anymore, right? That’s what you said was normal. So: Tell me what the new candle does. Make your explanation clear, thorough, and informative. Prove that you deserve the trust I have and want to keep having in you. I’ll leave our fate in your hands.

Nadia

P.S. Out of appreciation for all the favors she’s done me, I’ve included a sealed letter from Adelaide, who really wants to get in touch with you all of a sudden. She made me swear no fewer than three times not to read her message before forwarding it on — which has got me awfully curious, I must admit. Of course, I’m not in the habit of invading people’s privacy, so she’s got nothing to worry about. If it’s okay for me to know what the big deal is, I’d appreciate the scoop, but if it’s simply none of my concern, that’s fine too. There we go! Boundaries!

Sorceress Carmilla Thornbriar,

I’ve examined all of your letters to Nadia thus far, as well as their ‘attachments’. I know exactly what you’re doing, and I’d like to offer my assistance. Write to me separately if you’re interested in discussing terms (no need for funny business — I’m warded). Sketches of preliminary design concept below and on reverse. If the seal on this document’s envelope has been tampered with, destroy the document and do not reply.

Respectfully,

Adelaide Winters