#ltadf

I know like three Basils. This is a bad thing. They're multiplying

— I do think that you should keep your pride contained, Horvat.

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basil "innocent" horvat...

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I’ve told you many a time that my heart has been taken by another. Just as you said—Mister Pittsbury and I are bound together in a “contracted and sacramental way”, and you possess no power to smite the will of God Himself.

But alas, you adore me, or at the very least claim to, for all you see is the surface, and not what lies underneath. Basil, you know the blood in my veins is warm with your yearning, but it is Holden that allows that blood to flow.

I used to entertain your silly advances, but now I realize what they meant to you. To you, I am a subject, and you are the painter. You’ve seen me, heard me, and loved me; but most of all, you’ve drawn me. You wish to immortalize me in those wretched nude sketches of yours, in that almost degrading painting portraying me as Venus, in that incomplete sculpture of me in that modest evening gown. If I am to be your “love”, how is it that I feel none?

Call me an angel all you like, Basil, but I would prefer to be wed to a man that spares a shred of dignity for me than to one that makes me his muse. I feel your care, your love, your admiration, but what for? If you love me as you claim to, how? You have the audacity to compare my voice to the gospel, to measure my worth by my appearance, to act as if I am something that exists as an art form.

No—Basil, you do not love me. You merely adore me.

If I have taken you captive: please, escape while my back is turned, for I cannot face you any longer.

Though it is ill-advised for me to write to you, I am not a man known for his discipline. In fact, quite the opposite.

Your voice tonight, oh! It’s divine; an angel’s song drifting through my ear, weaving loops in my head. I believe your vocals were made for Mozart. Not just Mozart, as a matter of fact—made for anything. Whenever you speak to me, I listen, like the Lord calling on His saints. Every word you say is like a gospel of its own, and I am merely a disciple, drinking every word like it is gold.

And that is not even mentioning your countenance. Your beauty encapsulates me just as your voice does. The dress you wore as you performed—the red silk one—is so lovely on you. The deep burgundy compliments the ebony hue of your hair perfectly. The way the dress flows whenever you make the slightest of movements leaves me nothing short of stunned. I believe that you, in your ethereal glory, have taken me captive.

Oh, Eislyn, you utterly ruin me, fully, wholly, and absolutely. You asked me what Holden would think of my love for you the other night I came to see you sing—I do not care! You may be bound to him in a contracted and sacramental way, but my admiration for you knows no bounds. I will love who I will, and he cannot stop me from loving you. Damn that Holden Pittsbury. I loathe him so.

Eislyn—I beseech you, please come to my studio tomorrow at six! I must draw you. I promise to treat you to dinner after—I know how tedious it is to sit and pose for me. You know the address, yes? Be sure to take the door on the right, not the left, as Fernando attempted to do. Oh, Eislyn, how I love you. I will be awaiting you.

Your dearest admirer,

Do you like toxic relationships set in the Victorian era? That's amazing! You should like, totes invest in Letters to a Dying Flame... hahaha...