Your mother is indulging the misguided notion that I have taken you under my wing. Somehow, I doubt that the man who saw through my Doppelganger captor while everyone else let him chat up young unfortunates and order bretzel with his coffee breaks needs a minder. Tell her so, and feel free to call on me otherwise. Case-free, if possible.
Since her brief to me included a note to you, I have asked Miss Goldstein to pass it on.
Truly yours (and self), Percival Graves
-------------------------
Newt,
I’m sending this care of the Delta Hotel, where you said you were a boarder. Why I have no idea. I only saw the place once, after it went all-out Ragnarok on poor Mr. Kowalski, and it looked gloomier than a troll’s Christmas list. Why don’t you room with us? We’ll pass you off as our southern brother.*
Your book is great. And it’s great that kids are loving it. Who knows, perhaps they’ll make it a school book some day?
All good things, Tina
*I can be a sister to you, Newt. Comes with the territory, when it comes to me.
----------------------------------
Newton dear,
I wish you’d tell me when and where you’re leaving. It is highly inconvenient, having to ask Theseus for your whereabouts when most days there is no saying where he might be. That Herr Grindelwald could have waited another decade for his hoity-toity crusade. All it’s done so far has been to keep your brother away and bring in those beastly taxes. Yes, Newt, I’m using the b-word. I have every reason to. Two nests down with the foot-and-beak disease, and Balin is moulting again, poor darling. Your father too, but that’s par for the course.
And to top it all, Abraxias Malfoy has just unplaced his order for a Blue-Fledged yearling, saying that he ‘favours peacocks’ all in all. Peacocks. Unbelievable. And asking for his deposit back. The gall of that flaxen-haired ninny!
Which brings me to my point. Since you are in wizarding America, I expect you to make the most of it. They have girls over there, Newton. In case this slipped your notice (much does). Perfectly nice girls with fathers in the broom business and the corporate Patronus business, who would love nothing more than a son-in-law with an Old World pedigree. (V. sensible of them. Look where inbreeding left the Malfoys.) And it’s not as if the estate couldn’t do with a little remodeling, which I certainly cannot afford, not with the Ministry pinching my best mounts for the war effort and Certain People favouring honking featherdusters for their lawns.
Somebody has to do the honourable thing, Newton.
(And we both know about your brother’s life motto. ‘Bit of whoopee in the gunroom’ probably sums it best.)
Now, Mrs Wanderbell – a dear friend of your godmother’s, and quite the hostess in New York – has agreed to give a little party for your book. She has three daughters, and they all have friends. I want you to go there and look your best, and I want you to write back and report on the young ladies, chapter and verse. Do buy a new coat, dear, and do try not to mention the dung beetles at meal.
Yours affectionately, Mother
------------------------------
Queenie,
Saturday, eleven, bakery. I’m in.
Resolutely, Newt
----------------------------------
Hey chickadee,
Look, it’s not my fault I was late at the show yesterday. I know I’d said 5, what with the tickets selling like hot cakes, but Mr K. was on the slow track. Sorta dopey. You’d not of thought he’d downed five cups of joe with that guy and that doll in the a.m. (Guy was shifty. Spoke like Stan Laurel and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Made me suspishous that he’d he’d put a Mickey Finn in Mr K’s cup as himself would drink none of it, and a fresh strong brew it was. Doll was all right.) They all kept talking and not talking. More like, Guy would start and stop, and Mr K. would say ‘Oh’, like he’d just won the ball pool, and then Doll would say something very fast, all dimples. At first. Then no dimples. It’s a phony world.
Mr K. couldn’t string two and two together after that. Baked the cinammon rolls at sponge temp and these babies came out all gooey, So who had to do another batch? And the inventory? Yours truly, that’s right. Boss just pawed at his neck and beamed. (Could of been a poisoned dart, then, like in that Capone gang story you and I read in the Mirror.) But he did say I could have all of next Sat afternoon. Meaning, we could have a stroll and supper before that jazz talkie. Eh, chick?
I hope you like the orkid. It cost me a pretty dime.
Fill - When the Clouds Roll By (4/?)
Your mother is indulging the misguided notion that I have taken you under my wing. Somehow, I doubt that the man who saw through my Doppelganger captor while everyone else let him chat up young unfortunates and order bretzel with his coffee breaks needs a minder. Tell her so, and feel free to call on me otherwise. Case-free, if possible.
Since her brief to me included a note to you, I have asked Miss Goldstein to pass it on.
Truly yours (and self),
Percival Graves
-------------------------
Newt,
I’m sending this care of the Delta Hotel, where you said you were a boarder. Why I have no idea. I only saw the place once, after it went all-out Ragnarok on poor Mr. Kowalski, and it looked gloomier than a troll’s Christmas list. Why don’t you room with us? We’ll pass you off as our southern brother.*
Your book is great. And it’s great that kids are loving it. Who knows, perhaps they’ll make it a school book some day?
All good things,
Tina
*I can be a sister to you, Newt. Comes with the territory, when it comes to me.
----------------------------------
Newton dear,
I wish you’d tell me when and where you’re leaving. It is highly inconvenient, having to ask Theseus for your whereabouts when most days there is no saying where he might be. That Herr Grindelwald could have waited another decade for his hoity-toity crusade. All it’s done so far has been to keep your brother away and bring in those beastly taxes. Yes, Newt, I’m using the b-word. I have every reason to. Two nests down with the foot-and-beak disease, and Balin is moulting again, poor darling. Your father too, but that’s par for the course.
And to top it all, Abraxias Malfoy has just unplaced his order for a Blue-Fledged yearling, saying that he ‘favours peacocks’ all in all. Peacocks. Unbelievable. And asking for his deposit back. The gall of that flaxen-haired ninny!
Which brings me to my point. Since you are in wizarding America, I expect you to make the most of it. They have girls over there, Newton. In case this slipped your notice (much does). Perfectly nice girls with fathers in the broom business and the corporate Patronus business, who would love nothing more than a son-in-law with an Old World pedigree. (V. sensible of them. Look where inbreeding left the Malfoys.) And it’s not as if the estate couldn’t do with a little remodeling, which I certainly cannot afford, not with the Ministry pinching my best mounts for the war effort and Certain People favouring honking featherdusters for their lawns.
Somebody has to do the honourable thing, Newton.
(And we both know about your brother’s life motto. ‘Bit of whoopee in the gunroom’ probably sums it best.)
Now, Mrs Wanderbell – a dear friend of your godmother’s, and quite the hostess in New York – has agreed to give a little party for your book. She has three daughters, and they all have friends. I want you to go there and look your best, and I want you to write back and report on the young ladies, chapter and verse. Do buy a new coat, dear, and do try not to mention the dung beetles at meal.
Yours affectionately,
Mother
------------------------------
Queenie,
Saturday, eleven, bakery. I’m in.
Resolutely,
Newt
----------------------------------
Hey chickadee,
Look, it’s not my fault I was late at the show yesterday. I know I’d said 5, what with the tickets selling like hot cakes, but Mr K. was on the slow track. Sorta dopey. You’d not of thought he’d downed five cups of joe with that guy and that doll in the a.m. (Guy was shifty. Spoke like Stan Laurel and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Made me suspishous that he’d he’d put a Mickey Finn in Mr K’s cup as himself would drink none of it, and a fresh strong brew it was. Doll was all right.) They all kept talking and not talking. More like, Guy would start and stop, and Mr K. would say ‘Oh’, like he’d just won the ball pool, and then Doll would say something very fast, all dimples. At first. Then no dimples. It’s a phony world.
Mr K. couldn’t string two and two together after that. Baked the cinammon rolls at sponge temp and these babies came out all gooey, So who had to do another batch? And the inventory? Yours truly, that’s right. Boss just pawed at his neck and beamed. (Could of been a poisoned dart, then, like in that Capone gang story you and I read in the Mirror.) But he did say I could have all of next Sat afternoon. Meaning, we could have a stroll and supper before that jazz talkie. Eh, chick?
I hope you like the orkid. It cost me a pretty dime.
Yours,
Henry