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Entry tags:
fic, sorta, *writes letter for A.j.*
(SPN/Foyle's War, PG, no spoilers)
Dearest Anastasia and Josephine,
I find myself quite certain that starting a salutation with 'Dee and Jo' would cause my father to appear and frown quite ferociously. Alive or not, Vicar or not, I feel sure that he could manage the astral projection through sheer force of Propriety.
How are you both? Is Ellen well? Please give her my love, and tell her I'm rightly thankful for the cantrip she sent last time. It's been frightfully useful.
As for me, I'm still driving Mr. Foyle around. Very grateful to be out of the garages, of course. Last time I was there, they had me emptying the oil pans. Took me four scrubs to get rid of the crust under my nails, and that was with a sliver of soap. You know, sometimes, I miss the luxury of a bubble bath. Don't you?
Mr. Foyle is, of course, brilliant about murders and the like, but he has rather silly notions about the supernatural. Thinks it's all twaddle. He's a perfectly intelligent man, just refuses to see what's in front of his own eyes. Sad. He's rather wasted in those areas. Though, I suppose he's a bit old for it, so perhaps it's a good thing he ignores it all.
I've nothing much to report: Hastings has been quite silent since we sent that demon the rightabout. Ms. Roslin hasn't yet forgiven us the candle wax and burnt feathers all over her best parlour, but it's not as though I could explain, really. Perhaps next time, we can run the show in an alley. No one minds if an alley gets a little dirtier.
There have been two spirits, though. I wonder if they're disturbed by the bombs and the general unrest? It's not as though we're used to bombs falling, after all. I don't know that it's something you can get used to.
Going it alone wasn't as awful as it could have been, though the second gave me rather a lot of trouble. I almost didn't think I'd manage it. Miss Roslin was very unhappy at my state when I returned. I tried to tell her it wasn't my fault I'd fallen into the duck pond, but she wasn't having anything and threatened to turn me out!
Landladies. I suppose they're all dragons, in the end. You're both lucky yours is your mother and she can't turn you out for a little mud tracked in.
I suppose I should start looking for a partner, but it's such a bother. Most of the men are gone and the women... well, there are a few who aren't working themselves to the bone. Sometimes, I think I must be the luckiest of them all, driving around Mr. Foyle.
Hastings is full of papers and drills, as we wait breathlessly for an invasion that might never come. I can only hope it won't, at least not until I've a partner. Fighting Hell on my own would be quite lonely. I suppose I should worry about the Germans, in the end. But they're only a physical threat, after all.
(I prefer my immortal soul to belong to myself, obviously. Doesn't everyone?)
At least there hasn't been as much looting as they'd predicted. I suppose we're lucky that way.
Do write soon and tell me how things are on your end--
Much love, Samantha Stewart
P.S. A letter from Helen Magnus arrived before I'd closed the envelope, and now I've got to copy it out to you. At least the pertinent bits. How curious that she should ask that.
Do you know these Winchesters she makes reference to? And what about the urn?
- Sam. S.
P.P.S. Jo, please let Dee write me back, your handwriting leaves a doctor puzzled. - S.
Dearest Anastasia and Josephine,
I find myself quite certain that starting a salutation with 'Dee and Jo' would cause my father to appear and frown quite ferociously. Alive or not, Vicar or not, I feel sure that he could manage the astral projection through sheer force of Propriety.
How are you both? Is Ellen well? Please give her my love, and tell her I'm rightly thankful for the cantrip she sent last time. It's been frightfully useful.
As for me, I'm still driving Mr. Foyle around. Very grateful to be out of the garages, of course. Last time I was there, they had me emptying the oil pans. Took me four scrubs to get rid of the crust under my nails, and that was with a sliver of soap. You know, sometimes, I miss the luxury of a bubble bath. Don't you?
Mr. Foyle is, of course, brilliant about murders and the like, but he has rather silly notions about the supernatural. Thinks it's all twaddle. He's a perfectly intelligent man, just refuses to see what's in front of his own eyes. Sad. He's rather wasted in those areas. Though, I suppose he's a bit old for it, so perhaps it's a good thing he ignores it all.
I've nothing much to report: Hastings has been quite silent since we sent that demon the rightabout. Ms. Roslin hasn't yet forgiven us the candle wax and burnt feathers all over her best parlour, but it's not as though I could explain, really. Perhaps next time, we can run the show in an alley. No one minds if an alley gets a little dirtier.
There have been two spirits, though. I wonder if they're disturbed by the bombs and the general unrest? It's not as though we're used to bombs falling, after all. I don't know that it's something you can get used to.
Going it alone wasn't as awful as it could have been, though the second gave me rather a lot of trouble. I almost didn't think I'd manage it. Miss Roslin was very unhappy at my state when I returned. I tried to tell her it wasn't my fault I'd fallen into the duck pond, but she wasn't having anything and threatened to turn me out!
Landladies. I suppose they're all dragons, in the end. You're both lucky yours is your mother and she can't turn you out for a little mud tracked in.
I suppose I should start looking for a partner, but it's such a bother. Most of the men are gone and the women... well, there are a few who aren't working themselves to the bone. Sometimes, I think I must be the luckiest of them all, driving around Mr. Foyle.
Hastings is full of papers and drills, as we wait breathlessly for an invasion that might never come. I can only hope it won't, at least not until I've a partner. Fighting Hell on my own would be quite lonely. I suppose I should worry about the Germans, in the end. But they're only a physical threat, after all.
(I prefer my immortal soul to belong to myself, obviously. Doesn't everyone?)
At least there hasn't been as much looting as they'd predicted. I suppose we're lucky that way.
Do write soon and tell me how things are on your end--
Much love, Samantha Stewart
P.S. A letter from Helen Magnus arrived before I'd closed the envelope, and now I've got to copy it out to you. At least the pertinent bits. How curious that she should ask that.
Do you know these Winchesters she makes reference to? And what about the urn?
- Sam. S.
P.P.S. Jo, please let Dee write me back, your handwriting leaves a doctor puzzled. - S.
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Crimethe supernatural. Yes.no subject
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<3 <3 <3
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