Dearest Reader,
It has been quite a year for our beloved Editor-in-Chief. Regular readers will recall last issue’s somber update on the state of the Tippy situation which was Poppy, alone with her cat, having spent the better part of 1603 on woodland excursions with a druid, not doing druid things like she insisted and instead talking to a millennia-old cosmic horror.
I did not expect her to sign a marriage contract to spite me.
For those keeping score at home: Penelope Anne Katullin, a woman who has survived the Veilwalker curse, expanded a publishing empire across the entire Freelands, and once convinced this correspondent to do her accounting at two in the morning, has spent years being completely obvious about how much she liked a man while somehow thinking nobody noticed.
I noticed, Poppy. I noticed when you stopped being condescending to him. I noticed when you actually sat back down at the Jenny and listened, with your eyes and everything, while he was talking. I noticed when you handled that Civen Legion issue in his absence because you knew how and you didn’t want it to fall through the cracks.
You did not mention that last one to anyone. It’s okay. I saw it.
What I cannot explain is what on Illumina Titus sees in her.
This is a woman with no self-preservation instincts who has walked out of the Jenny and into active danger without her weapons on more than one occasion. Not misplaced them, not forgotten them at home, left them at the table while going outside, like kazvaks are a thing that doesn’t exist. She forgets her magical protections with such regularity that a betting pool on whether she has Second Breath up or not has the potential to turn a profit. She talks to suspicious-looking strangers with the confidence of someone who has never been stabbed by surprise.
This is also a woman who, when asked directly in Truth or Truth whether she loved the man she is about to become legally entangled with, picked up her cup and drank. Titus stated, with his hand on the sword, in front of witnesses, that he loved her; Poppy instead made eye contact with the bottom of her mug.
Titus, for his part, has our deepest sympathies and admiration. He has accepted being the last to know anything, being dragged into situations he did not agree to, listening to Entity research theories at hours no reasonable person should be awake, and quietly ordering extra food for someone who said she wasn’t hungry.
He does not complain about any of it. He just looks around sometimes with an expression that says “this is my life now” and leaves the plate somewhere she can easily reach.
I have been watching this for two years. I knew it was serious approximately six to eight months before Poppy admitted it out loud. We think Titus understands this, and that is probably why he smiles and says “no comment” when someone asks him a question about her.
Congratulations, Poppy. You are not as subtle as you think you are, you never eat enough, and you are genuinely terrible at talking about your feelings.
I am so happy you weren’t stabbed by a wedding planner. It is deeply unfair that you didn’t actually plan a wedding, but I am happy for you anyway, in spite of everything—which is the most honest thing I have ever written in this column.
Yours Truly,
Madam Mapleleaf