My dearest Betsy,
It may be a while before you receive this letter, as I have not yet been able to find your Block. Still, I will. I have eternity to do it. Memory is fickle here; I want this down on paper so that whatever happens you may know.
Although I remain eternally your devoted cousin, I am not the person I was when we last met, though it seems I will never be rid of the pallor of consumption. (I can hear you already, getting your powders and creams to change that, but there is no need. I am content with who I have become.)
I met so many new people when I arrived here. I'm sure you know that; your Block must be the same, and perhaps it was less of a shock to you, having been to London before. I courted someone for a while – a Mr. Everard – and while he remains a dear friend of mine, I have learned I am not meant to be someone's wife. It is an odd thing, to know I will never be what our parents wanted for us and to be content in it. I hope you will be as happy for me in my solitude as I was for you in your union.
There are friends I should like you to meet too – Canary is a wonderful artist, and has been my traveling companion often since we learned how to leave the block. Queenie also travels with me on occasion, looking for her own past. John is responsible for the most beautiful garden in the ruins of where our tower once stood. The Archbishop Moro has kept my stories – I shall leave a copy of this letter with him, should the worst befall me or should you come looking. Livith tells me that all my family ought to be written down so I cannot forget their love, and William reminds me that I ought not spend eternity alone. And there are so many others, Betsy, and they all have such stories to tell.
And the people I have met on my travels! I believe your wild tales of London now, having seen all that humanity is capable off. There is a gorgeous palace in one block, all glass and metal. Another has a glistening lake, with houses on poles built in it and its Tower arching from its centre and reflecting in all directions. And the people! Betsy, I truly did not know there could be so many different ways to be. For all the Paths we were taught, there are so very many more. I cannot wait to see you, that I may tell you every detail of them all.
I hope that you are well, and have made a good life for yourself in this world after death. I hope that both I and this letter may reach you very soon.
Yours, always,
Juliette
– by Liana
The Threshold is a place built on memories. Human memory is wide-reaching, and so, in turn, every block is unique. By the simple fact of human wonder, there is much for Juliette to remember as she travels from block to block, finding every beautiful spot in this infinite space.
Over time, Juliette catalogues the world as she encounters it, building a map of every block, marking stars for the spots with the memories that shine the brightest, the places and people that get turned over and over again in her mind. In kind, Canary, Juliette’s constant travel partner, though others may come and go on missions of their own, draws the best spots in her sketchbook. The map begins to become unwieldy as the blocks stretch on and on, nevertheless Juliette plots her route, from Block 2845 to where she finds herself today, ever able, were she to choose, to return to that first home.
Today, she is in a theatre. The seats are plush and gold gilding hangs from the walls. The show has not yet begun, rather, actors, half dressed in costume, practise sword fights and soliloquies. It’s familiar, much like the readings of Macbeth, giggling, crowded around a text from her youth, and much like the rehearsals upon the garden stage of the Block where she found a voice that would be heard.
There’s a performance to be had tonight, and maybe she will be here to watch it. Maybe instead, she will be lost in an art gallery, or eating in some little nook in a restaurant. Maybe, instead, she will simply be sat on a wall somewhere, engrossed in conversation with some delightful stranger. Maybe she will have moved on. For now, however, she sits, watching the actors rehearse, drawing a map.
For now, this is the corner of everywhere, and everything, that she finds beautiful.
Excerpts from Juliette and Everard's turn 4 emails:
Don't think about the seating in the temple, by family and wealth. Don't think about the giving of alms, the charity in giving out scraps. Don't think about Henry's gloating stories of travel and education, don't think about Betsy's account of the air in London, don'tthinkdon'tthi– Juliette closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It is alright. Her father was the pastor and surely, he would not lead his only child astray.
Don't think. The constant drumbeat as he marched to war.
Charity, meagre and scant. Crumbs, not fields.
Don't think.
Pass on the goodness, and feel virtue in your heart.
Don't think.
Don't think. Accept the path that the deities must have given you, and for Selca's sake, smile. So she does.
What other path could there be for a Juliet(te)? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, a girl by any other name would tell the same story. Don't think about it. Just follow the path your father and your mother have shown you, follow the path the deities have ordained.
Don't think. Just listen.
The whisperings of resentment, so rarely expressed at louder volume. Livings, and tithes; one of the things the soldiers marched against. The corruption of the faith by wealth. Don't think.
The happy ending. The lovers' reunion. The curtain descending. Not how it went in the great bard's play, that Everard never saw.
A whole life summed up in a word, an arbitrary constellation of void-lost syllables.
Excerpt from Juliette and Moro's Turn 6 Emails
Her voice pitches and she pauses, putting a hand to her chest and blinking back tears.
Forgive me. I did not mean to burden you with my troubles, when you have plenty of your own.
Moro listens. And as she speaks, he sees in her something that aches to recognize.
I understand.
Gently, the Archbishop takes her hand in both of his own.
I understand.
Sincerity like the smooth stone of prayer beads.
You need not apologize. And you certainly need not hide doubt. Not with me. Believe, I understand.
At the first “I understand”, Juliette is able to blink back the tears.
At the second, she cannot stop them, and they flow freely over her face.
At the third, she collapses to the pavement, shoulders shaking with sobs.
She nods, in understanding, in agreement, in commiseration, at Moro's words. But she is not able to find the spare breath to reply.
Gingerly, he sits down beside her. The pain of his body does not matter in the face of this.
Moro puts a tentative hand on her shoulder and, joined like this, his own tears are set free. Somewhere, amidst the despair as wide as the world he has stepped out into, that music begins anew.
… at least we are not alone.
Juliette sobs for a long while. Weeks (months? years?) of suppressed fears spill out all at once.
When she is able to pull herself together, she attempts a smile.
We are not alone.