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It was written on fancy paper and pushed beneath the door to her two-bedroomed flat. She had almost missed it as she stepped calmly across the threshold and into the hallway, snapping on the light as she went. It was only as her heels slid a little that she looked down, chancing upon the heavy-looking cream envelope that lay only inches from the gap beneath the door. Blair stooped down quickly and retrieved it, feeling the fancy cursive of her name and address against the tips of her fingers. It was somewhat noticeable, having been laid to rest with some force. Dark ink marred the pale cream of the thick, heavy envelope.
Blair rubbed lightly at her eyes with the fingertips of her free hand, moving quickly through the hallway and into the lounge room as the ringing of the phone broke her concentration. She moved hurriedly through the slight gloom, dropping the unopened letter onto the coffee table and snatching up the flashing handset. She perched on the edge of the sofa. “Hello, Blair here.” There was no reply. Rather than ponder on it, she hung up. Blair supposed it would be safe to assume that someone from overseas, someone selling something she wasn't particularly interested in hearing about, had simply been a tad slow responding.
She shifted her attention to the letter that lay on the edge of the ebony coffee table like a piece of discarded rubbish waiting to be put out. She twisted slightly as she leant forward, selecting it between her thumb and forefinger as if it were something vulgar. Blair sat back as she finally held it, raising it slightly as if she could see inside of the thick envelope without bothering to open it. It was probably a letter of loathing for something she had allowed run in The Buzz. That, she mused, was the only downside of being the editor. Of passing things on to be placed in each issue. There was always someone unhappy with what was published, but she had long ago given up on trying to please everyone.
Blair sighed and switched on the floor lamp beside her as she slid her thumb beneath the seal in the envelope. She eased open the flap and sighed, eyeing the carefully folded sheets of thick, handmade paper of a pale shell-pink colour and decorated with a faded photograph of herself that had been printed upon the top of the paper. She scowled as she stared at it, carefully unfolding the letter to reveal it completely. Whoever had written the letter, she mused, was someone to be jealous of. Their handwriting was exceptional. It seemed to flower upon the paper, to curl right off of it. It was a beautiful thing, something old fashioned, and it left Blair momentarily mesmerised simply by how attractive the writing itself was. It was then that Blair began to read the letter.
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