"No pure heart could ever have thought that such a delicate fruit of divine love could ever fall in that remote town of Scotland. Yet, Miss Annabelle Stuart seemed to have chosen that mournful green ground to rest her broken limbs from the journey and delight the sight to the dancing reverberation of the sunlight on the dewdrops. How many of us at last wished to touch that white skin, to fill with her enveloping perfume, to hear our name dwelling on the petals of her lips."

I read at least a dozen times the passage I wrote. Each time, I changed when a name, when a verb, when the whole speech, and I still don't feel satisfied with it, yet. And thanks God that the good souls of my parents have been able to guarantee me an adequate education.

I think it's the light. Yes, this vulgar, impious, annoying light that surrounds me and shows me the objects as they are, without allowing me even a modicum of deserved inventiveness. Then everything becomes a mess, shabby and completely loses that aura of romance that only the night can give me.

I've already teared too many of these pages. I'll settle for this result, now. But it won't be enough to get to my goal. I feel my sigh of resignation rise from my stomach and run away from me louder than expected.

It's time for me to leave this desk and this house, if I'm going to eat something today. I take my coat. The slippery hem slips over the bottom seam. Sooner or later I will have to decide to buy a new one.

I turn to the jars on top of the wooden cupboard. I set them very high, so that it's not so easy to reach and empty them. I get in the chair and grab one, checking the label.

NEW COAT

«Not enough yet.» I let myself out loud. I'll have to be patient a little longer.

I could go all the way to Reverend Briggs' church. I got good clothes out of it last time I was there. I'll stop there later.

I grab the leather shoulder strap and I rush out the door, give a turn of key and hide it under the mat, in the comment between two stones that line the step. It is now an automatic gesture: who should ever want to enter a crumbling slum that creaks and groans at every step?

A few days ago I found an old cart partly broken, definitely left by some guy who wanted to get rid of. I picked it up and fixed it with the shelf at home where I used to keep the spice jars. With only a little salt left, I didn't need that shelf anymore. So, every morning I walk through the town with my proud cart crammed with objects.

I place the cap on my head and begin the usual itinerary. The road is deserted, the morning air stings my skin, despite the fact that it's late spring. It's already lucky that it does not rain.

For some time now, I have made the decision to reverse the tasks entrusted to me. In the morning I would have dedicated myself to the collection of parcels to be delivered during the afternoon or, at most, the day after at sunrise; while in the early afternoon I would have dedicated myself to the mail of the country.

Not that in the Bibury of 1860 there is just that great desire to write: the country is small, everyone knows each other; however, dispatches, lists, requests and petulant messages of love seem to never miss. There's a rumor going around that an Italian overseas has managed to create a device that can make two people talk at a distance. I think I'm lucky that the devilry is so far away, otherwise what about my job?

Quickly through the district and the town square, wading myself between the stalls of the improvised market and pull the string of a small bell hanging from a jamb browned by woodworms.

«Is he, Isaac?» the housekeeper receives me. I would almost be tempted to investigate which other person could ring her bell every morning at the same time.

«Yes, Mrs. Nolan, do you have something for me this morning?»

The woman, corpulent and middle-aged, stands strutting and picks up a bundle on the ground, behind the door. I grab it and I'm immediately surprised by his weight. I think Mrs Nolan noticed that and shortly afterwards she says: «Mrs Thompson needs her blankets washed: our courtyard is not large enough to allow us to lay them down properly.»

«Of course, I'll take them to the sisters down the road.»

He mentions an understanding with the head, then he offers me a small scar of thick fabric: «Here you are, Mr Wilson. There is something for the sisters and for your services. Tell them to hurry up, we have no more.»

«As the lady wishes.»

The sisters live down the street. They are twins, but they do not like to make it too public: before Reverend Briggs, the county had sent another pastor who did not look kindly on certain casualties. Fortunately for them, they were not exactly the same: one had blue eyes, the other of a woodland green.

Before we proceed with the collection, I might as well take this burden to its destination right away before it gets in my way. The exchange happens quickly, in the front yard. She always goes out, just Emma, for these things. Ester prefers to run for errands in the shops of the center: apothecary, butcher, stuff for cooks, in short. I'll leave the bag on the ground, give Emma directions, and I take the pouch out of my pocket. I reverse the content on the palm of my hand, I get the two shillings of my fee while the rest I pour into the hands of the girl.

«Mr Wilson, are you sure that those two shillings will suffice?» she asks me with a compassionate air. «We would not take advantage of his kindness.»

I know no one needs that money more than them. And I know as well as I do that whatever is left of it, minus the essential needs, will end up in the coffers of the orphanage on the top of the hill. «Don't worry about me, Emma.» I answer by taking her hands. «Your smile pays me back double.»

The blush appears on her cheeks and forces her to look down.

I swipe the brim of my hat and head to my next destination. After a couple of hours and several miles of ground, I collected enough packages, caskets, dispatches, lists and junk to fill a trunk with. Good thing I got my cart.

Not many letters today. I'll finish sooner. On the other hand, the fee for all the commissions that I've been asked for amounts to three pounds. I could almost afford a bowl of stew at the tavern.

I think about it a few seconds. On the other hand, I will not need the new coat before winter and there are still at least five months left. I might even indulge myself.

I put the other shillings safely in the pouch and keep some handy to pay for the services of the innkeeper.

It's been so long since the smell of steaming stew has come up that I'm almost moved, even if I don't really understand if it's happiness or if it's the onion's fault.

«Here you are, Isaac. Offering the house.» Margareth's voice brings me back to the present, as she slides a foaming golden mug along the counter. I can clearly see my eyes shining. Today must be my lucky day, no doubt.

I take a look at the cart left sheltered at the end of the room. With due considerations, I think I can manage all the tasks before nightfall, including the mails. I can give myself a few minutes of deserved rest.

«What do you do until late always with that candle on?» Margareth's husband asks me.

«I write.»

«And what can I know? Love letters?» She whispers, winking.

I'm so embarassed and immediately reply: «Oh no. Nothing like that. I'm writing a novel.»

«Ah, one of those where there are so many people who say things and follow adventures?» Margareth exclaims, pleased.

«And what do you know, wife?»

«I'm aware about it, dunce! I can read!» Everytime, Meg can draw me a smile. And to think that the only thing she was able to read in her entire life was an edotion of "Robinson Crusoe" and seeing how much she still boasts fills me with a strange joy.

«Listen to me, boy. It doesn't lend you anywhere, I've never heard about any writer that has made his fortune with that stuff.»

«You're wrong, I'll make it, you'll see! I'll become a legend!» I don't know why, but shouting these words leaves me a feeling of estrangement: I've moved my lips, the voice got out of my mouth, but I'm still not sure at all I said it myself.

«Uhm. Of course. But don't freak out, that M r Tikki gets scared.»

Yeah, the cat. How to forget it.

Suddenly I feel the responsibility of Meg's husband's words falling on me. I feel crushed, suffocated, overcome. I become small, sitting at the rough plank of the tavern, where everyone is passing and no one earns more than a few seconds of existence, before returning to the shadow from which he comes.

I pay and greet with courtesy, I pick up my cart, which has lost all its deep value and has become something insignificant: just an old shabby object, to which, however, someone has taken the trouble to give another chance. In itself it is just an old piece of junk, but for me it represents a valuable help in my wandering. On the other hand, doesn't it all come down to this? Everyone gets the importance that the eye of the beholder devotes to him. I have to write this down: I'll put it in my novel.

I finish the tour of all deliveries. I only have one left to do.

«And you, to whom are you allocated?» I ask the last parcel that is at the bottom of the cart. I collect and examine it carefully.

The sender is an unknown name, probably foreign. Perhaps Irish, judging by the surname. A foreigner, what a news! It is not easy to find them: few beyond the English borders have knowledge in Bibury. The recipient is the elder pastor. It'll be another prayers book or some volume for his studies. I would love to have continued. But the money that was needed would have been too much more than we could have. One day, when my novel will have gone around Europe, I will have enough money to go further in my studies. Who knows, maybe I'll even be able to visit some other beautiful country.

Now it's time to come back to my Annabelle. On the way back, I stop by the old baker. He saves for me the unsold of the day. Usually, with four shillings I find dinner for at least three days; then if it is particularly in the mood, it even gives me some eggs of its chicken coop, only in spring or summer because the winter is harsh even for the hens.

And now, I'm here like every night since when everything begun. I crush with the old mortar a piece of coal and mix it with a few drops of rapeseed oil. Better be provident and save where you can. And just the paper cost me a fortune. I learned to recreate new sheets from the old ones that I shredded so as to throw away as little as possible.

I take a new candle and set it into the holder. It'll be my company during this night. I sit at my desk and, as always, the white paper captures me, hundreds of images explode in my mind and one of them emerges clear and bright: her. This is my Annabelle.

I hope, with every fiber of my being, to never meet a woman like her because, I'm sure, she'd be my complete ruin.

I pick up some charcoal with the sharp tip of an old calamus that has already endured enough, and as soon as I place it on the porous surface, my hand moves almost by itself and begins its dance of strokes and sighs. I will continue to shape my thoughts until my sleep catches me and the flame of the candle watches over my rest.