A plain cream card arrives in the care of a small, snowy owl. Its message is casually written with neat penmanship, and carries the faint scent of peaches.
Moira,
I heard from a colleague about the incident at the grave. Terribly sorry this has happened to you and yours. Should you ever want to talk, even about anything outside this vile news, do drop a note.
Yours,
R. Almasy.
[Feb 23rd] Manners Maketh Witch