When Emily woke up again, she was still under the table. The sun was up, struggling over the lake, smudging colour all over the shimmering water. In front of her was the brown paper package, and, on top of that, an envelope. The Russian letter. The second one. She picked it up. She should tell Jonah about the letter, about the whole affair. She’d wanted so badly to have a mystery, something that they could figure out together, the two of them against the world. This was perfect. And she was excluding him.
Emily slid the thin sheets of paper out of the envelope. The note wasn’t addressed, and there were none of the formal greetings that she’d grown used to in other old correspondence. There was a date, that was it, and a mess of jumbled script.
Doran had asked for more letters, and she’d
