My Dearest Clever Silk,
Though it pains me to admit it, perhaps you are correct and I have been somewhat over dramatic regarding the Pilgrimage to Lombardi. Though if anyone asks, I will most certainly categorically deny any such thing. Before you claim the whole of the credit for my change of heart, however, I must admit that Mother played no small part in it. I know you would tell me that Mother is an unlikely source of Sound Advice, and truly it is not that I have taken to agreeing with her. But she has been remarkably tight lipped for the duration of our Journey--and not just less outspoken like that time we took that tour of Avignon, but nearly silent. When have you ever known Mother to fail to share her opinion on anything? Yet since our departure she has developed the worrisome habit of wringing her hands in silence or pouring over some bit of correspondence. I have attempted to extract the information from by means both direct and subtle, but Mother refuses to answer or simply changes the subject and no one else aboard seems to know our purpose. I can only assume that the letter is the catalyst for our hurried leave taking, but I cannot imagine what would precipitate such drastic action as a journey to Lombardi. Perhaps the answer will be forthcoming on the morrow when we call upon Cousin Isabella. Though I suppose rightly she is no longer our cousin, as she is no longer the widow of Cousin David, but remarried to a Lombardi gentleman--by the name of Niccolo, I believe. I expect when I do discover the true purpose of our presence here, I shall have pages and pages to write to you.
As for Lombardi itself, how I wish you were here to appreciate it with me. In all honesty, I believe that you would appreciate it far more than I. There are few carriages and even fewer cobbled roads, as everyone here travels by gondola and sandolo. I know you say that you get terribly seasick, but allow me to remind you that I have seen you ride. If you can stay astride a horse with your reckless ways, you will enjoy the canals of Lombardi--though perhaps they are too sedate for your tastes.
On the other hand, as much as I expect that you will appreciate water craft as a stimulating mode of transportation, you may find its effect on the architecture rather disconcerting--I know that I most certainly do. You see, dear cousin, many of the buildings are four or five stories tall and few levels share the same aesthetic, even within the same building--towering and strange, I know you will say, but nothing to be overly concerned about. What caught my attention, however, was not the height or the terribly mismatched tastes, but that each floor had a door into empty air. This, of course, piqued my copious curiosity, so I made inquiries of one of the local bargemen. Well, I am well cured of my curiosity for the duration of our stay. Impossible, you shall exclaim, but I tell you that it is true. And you will understand when I relate what was told to me. You see, the man informed me that the buildings had been constructed in that manner because Lombardi is slowly sinking into the ocean as I write! Sinking! He said, rather gleefully I must say, that as each building descends to its watery grave, the next floor then becomes the ground level, and new floor is constructed upon the remains of the old. Panic must have shown on Mother's face because the man hurriedly informed her that the city had not sunken a single inch for decades. Something about a curse or a blessing placed on the city by a sorceress. A prophecy of some sort that the locals believe will never come to pass--or at least not within their lifetimes.
All the same, I believe that I will insist on residing on the highest floor that can be arranged. I, for one, have no intention of sinking into the sea along with the rest of Lombardi.
Affectionately yours,
Clever Silk
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