The room wasn’t too big. It was large enough to fit all of her furniture, but certainly not big enough to feel lonely.

In one corner of the room was a statue of a tiger standing on two legs clenching a little girl between its claws. She was clothed in the finest manner: A ribbon tucked her stomach in and adorned her waist with a bow. The sleeves of her dress were long and loose, flowing down to her wrists, ending with a trimmed bobbin lace border. The fabric seemed like chiffon, sewn as a gathered skirt falling down to right under her knees. She wore wingtip shoes, her hair was long and silky and it fell like a waterfall down to her hips. But what truly drew people’s attention was the expression she wore.

Eleanor’s face wasn’t that of fright or panic, in fact she held herself in a rather collected pose, one hand feeling the tiger and the other gently grasping onto the edge of her dress. Her eyes were open, but not out of fear. She seemed fascinated, as if she wanted to take the moment in fully. She was looking upwards, meeting the tiger’s gaze. The tiger held onto the girl as if she held power over him. He held her so tight, it was as if he didn’t hold her, she would eat him instead. As he stood on two thick furry limbs he met her eyes with a nervous gaze.

The room could only belong to an eccentric. The room was candle-lit and oh so quiet until suddenly she hears,

“My lady!”

The maid didn’t shy away from breaking into her mistress’ room. She did it every morning unprompted. She did it with such an ease, the young lady truly believed her maid had no sense of boundaries. She was sneaky too, like a mouse. In fact, oftentimes, the lady didn’t even notice her maid as she broke into her room to deliver the news.

“Yes?”

There were glass vases all over the place, hand-painted sculptures, a beautiful gothic table with ornamented chalk-like borders; one adorned by the body of a tiger chasing people out of a village. It was almost as if the table’s border told a story. You could sense the terror in the eyes of every little carved out person. 

And in the background, almost as if she weren’t there, a frail-looking woman. Doll-like, petrified, sitting in a large marble throne-like rocking-chair. She only moved to steal a breath. Occasionally, if you were lucky enough you might catch her blinking. But most of the time, the woman was completely still, as if saving all of her energy, as if she were waiting for something truly important to break her trance.

On this day, her expression was distinctly annoyed. How many times this week again? This must be the fourth time she is disturbed during her morning meditation. The maid, surprised at her mistress’ response (or rather at getting a response, at all), took a step back and cleared her throat.

“I have come to deliver a letter, m’lady.”

“Yes.”

The lady smiled. Her maid seemed uneasy, but Eleanor did not pay her any mind. She proceeded. “Leave it on the table.”

The maid gently left the letter on her lady’s table and closed the door. She wasn’t particularly pretty, she didn’t have any visible charms, not that Eleanor cared, but she was certainly useful. While her skills in the kitchen or the loom were nothing to write home about, this woman could write. Even more unusual for a woman of her status, was that she could imitate any font or handwriting style. The woman was a forger.

Eleanor knew this, and while the idea of having a forger as a maid should be dismissed immediately by anyone with sound judgement, she found the maid’s ability quite entertaining. Eleanor often pondered whether the letters the maid delivered were all actually written by her. Any rat is loyal so long as you feed it, and Chantal was paid quite well. And besides, having a forger around proved quite useful, and Eleanor was quite happy not to write trivial letters anymore. It was all dealt by the maid and the maid alone. Without any distractions, and having no chores or responsibilities around the house, Eleanor could focus on her work completely. Eleanor was a writer. Eleanor Arquette, lady of words.

She opened the navy blue envelope left on the table and her eyes skimmed the postcard inside. Pictures of St. Petersburg, little doodled tigers, shaky handwriting, “With all due respect towards my favorite author,” the usual. She glanced at the letter, confused, seeing how the rest of the page was completely empty. Empty until…

“Very clever.”

That was all that was written on the bottom of the letter. Eleanor gasped.

The letter fell to the floor. Her gaze locked on the tiger statue.

“Well, isn’t that nice?”