It begins with the doorman. A white envelope, an unrecognizable seal. The bronze-colored glove retreats into the spotless car without a word, leaving the doorman to puzzle on the destination of the letter. No one drops off letters for the queen so unceremoniously. The doorman turns sharply on his heel, his gelled hair wobbling along to the crisp beat of his footsteps, hoping he looks like someone with a clear destination in mind. There’s no need to rush up the marble steps, no need to hurry inside, out of the autumn sunlight — he doesn’t know where to go. Finally, he gives up. It’s not his job. He likely has more important matters to address.
          He passes the letter to a guard at the top of the stairs. The doorman says nothing — he has no information to give. The guard stares ahead, as is her duty, but privately wonders what on earth she’s meant to do with the slip of paper. Her coworker across from her gives a barely perceptible brow raise. He doesn’t know, either.
          Standing on guard duty with a letter in one hand and a musket in the other is hardly professional. A kitchen maid is returning from her break, trotting up the stairs and readjusting her hair. The letter goes to her.
          Her mind is preoccupied — the paper is introduced to an apron pocket, where it stays throughout the remainder of the queen’s lunch. She clears away what’s left of the potatoes, and heads to the kitchen. It’s steamy; the metal tray in her hands becomes clouded in seconds. A cute kitchen hand she’s had her eye on holds open the back door for her — maybe it’s an invitation for a later conversation? Or so the kitchen maid hopes, and she fantasizes about the boy as she scrapes the leftovers into the compost bin just outside.
          Right as she steps back onto the concrete kitchen doorstep, she remembers the envelope. Hurriedly, she draws it out, and realizes she wasn’t given any instruction by the guard. It’s a heavy, old-fashioned paper. She stares at it a moment longer, then spies a gardener coming around the corner with some hedge trimmings. The maid hopes she doesn’t look too out of place, loitering just outside the kitchen.
          She hears the lid of the compost bin slam closed, and presses the letter into the gardener’s hands before he has a chance to walk away. Then she disappears into the kitchen with one thought on her mind: I hope the kitchen boy didn’t see that.
          The gardener doesn’t know what to make of this encounter. He barely knows the maid. The letter held between his knees, he takes off his filthy leather gloves and shoves them in his pocket. As he walks back to his loppers, ladder, and hedges, he examines the letter.
          The paper is thick and creamy, properly off-white. And the golden seal — he doesn’t recognize the crest, but he decides that it’s not that of the maid’s family. He’ll deal with the letter later; for now, he needs to finish with this corner of the garden. He sets down the letter on the base of a statue, under a rock to keep it from blowing away, and gets back to work.
          It’s autumn. Leaves blow. One alights upon the letter, obscuring it from the view of the gardener as he finishes with the hedge. And the memory of it dances out of his head as he carries away his tools, with no paper visible to anchor it there.
          The knees bend with a creak, and a variety of creases appear in the bronze trouser legs. The statue reaches for the hidden letter. It picks it up and raises it close to its face — the sculptor forgot its glasses. The seal cracks with the press of a fingertip.
          When it finishes reading, the statue lets the wind take the letter with the leaves, rising and falling over the city from which it came. The statue settles back into position, attempting to erase the slight smile on its face. “Oh, my dear, so that’s what you’ve been up to.”