Dearest, I fear that this letter shall never be seen by your eyes. I am ill, and I grow weaker every day. Reason tells me that I shall not make it to the year 1900. That saddens me, but I think that I shall not listen to reason, as you reminded me daily. I must admit that I miss you. Even after all of the times I said that I never wanted to see your face again, I want you by my side. Now. But we both know that my wish shall never be granted.
I must ask, did you get word of the Guardians? It seems that the old stories are true. That they are coming. I wonder if I shall be lucky enough to live on as an Angel. Imagine that, a simple thatcher's wife, an Angel! I laugh at the thought. Then again, I might always become a Demon. If neither, I shall just decompose with my mother, and her mother... and their mothers before them. That sounds peaceful.
I must go now, I feel too weak to write any more. Cynthia sends her love, along with Margaret and Claudia.