Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.14

Chapter 14.

A Letter from the Moors.

Three weeks later, as Amanderella was polishing her boots in her tidy room at Number 9 Wimple Terrace, Mrs Gaffletter appeared at the door holding an envelope between finger and thumb, as though it might contain either treasure or trouble.

“A letter for you, Lady Gottsnobbler,” she said. “From… her.”

Amanderella accepted it calmly. The envelope was smudged with flour and enthusiasm. She broke the seal.

Botswana’s handwriting tumbled across the page like a woman running downhill:

My dear Amanderella,
You cannot imagine how busy we are! People are arriving from everywhere , walkers, artists, curious folk, and one gentleman who claimed he could “hear colours” when the hills sang. The Maw is a marvel. Roglan has sold more cider in a fortnight than in the whole of last winter. Filibert Pank has stopped hiding behind his curtains and now gives directions to visitors with great authority (even when he is wrong).
And the best news of all, Septimus Nonshine has bought himself a motorbike. A real one! He says he was inspired by your example. He rides round the parish wearing goggles and his hassock flapping behind him like a very solemn kite. The hens are terrified, but he is delighted.
With love and endless gratitude,
Botswana Lollingfolly.

Amanderella folded the letter with quiet satisfaction.

Mrs Gaffletter hovered. “Well? Is she—?”

“Happy,” Amanderella said. “Very happy. And very busy.”

Mrs Gaffletter let out a breath she had been holding for twenty‑one days. “Good. Very good. That is… entirely as it should be.”

Amanderella placed the letter neatly in her drawer. Outside, the street was peaceful. Inside, the house was spotless. The world, for the moment, was tidy.

She reached for her hatpin case, feeling the pleasant stir of possibility.

There would be other mysteries. Other journeys. Other hills that hummed.

But for now, Number 9 Wimple Terrace was quiet, and the kettle was beginning to sing.