It was half way through opening the thing that it occurred to me that this letter, presently in my hand was almost certainly from Eleanor's friend, and I wondered, a part of me deep inside tensing up, why the back of this creamy smooth envelope had a sort of red gold tinged wax seal like I had never seen before.

It was otherworldly, the color, and as much as I wish to not get ahead of myself, there was a very important, very peculiar, reason for this.

Opening the letter, the seal of the wax was still warm. It could have been a matter of the seal being wax, but the weather outside was cold, cold as it comes. Yet still, here, here was a letter with its seal still warm and tacky to the touch. It was beyond mere comprehension. There was something in this fact that was most peculiar to me. 

If I had only known.