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“Alicia Rutherford,” Sylvia said. “She was my English teacher at Exeter, so you wouldn’t have known her.”
“And what made her a favorite?” Lancelot asked casually.
“She was the first to suggest I write poetry, and over the years, we’ve remained in touch. She’s become my mentor. She taught me more than just how to use words to express myself, but taught me how to listen, and how to really understand people. Then she was the beta reader for my first two books, offering critiques and comments.”
“She sounds wonderful. You went to school here in Charleston, correct?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, Exeter isn’t far from here at all.”
“Ah, then you must see her regularly, how nice.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hugo saw Lancelot’s eyebrows rise a little. He was impressed. Hugo was frankly impressed with himself.
Sylvia shook her head. “No. I haven’t seen her in years.” Then she crinkled her nose. “This will probably sound funny to y’all, but we correspond through letters. I know most people consider that an archaic practice, but we both believe letter writing is a lost art form.”
Hugo had to look away from Lancelot after he gave Hugo a what the fuck look that almost made him laugh.
Sylvia must have noticed as well. “You can laugh,” she said to Lancelot. “My family teases me all the time about my old soul.”
Lancelot gave her a questioning look that she answered. “That means I’m a big fan of things that were in vogue when my grandmother was my age. I write letters to friends rather than text or email. I have a cell phone, but it’s typically in my purse and—to my mother’s dismay—usually turned off or the battery’s dead. I never remember to charge the damn thing. I use it more like a camera than a communication device. I prefer to write my poems by hand, only typing them into the computer once they’re complete, because my editor is not an old soul.”
She smiled ruefully. “I say that, but I love Instagram. Posting pictures of my sketches, and my poems, on there is how I was able to make a career of doing what I love. And I think it’s beautiful that I can share my art with people all over the world. Before, going to a museum, buying a book of poetry…those were things that required some level of access and privilege. So many people rail against phones, and true, I would rather write a letter than a text, but the accessibility of information—art, science, politics—is unprecedented in human history.”
Hugo had a vivid flashback to standing in front of the small seminar-style class while she answered a question he’d posed with a clarity and insight that had been almost intimidating.
“I like Instagram,” Lancelot said. “It seems like a nicer place than Facebook.”
Hugo wasn’t sure when or where they’d lost control of this conversation, but he couldn’t figure out how to ask her when the last time she’d talked to Alicia had been without the question seeming odd, and potentially alerting her to their ulterior motives.
Sylvia stood up and walked to a decorative cardboard box. It was pink with a floral design that did, indeed, look very grandmotherly. Taking off the lid, she withdrew a stack of letters, still in envelopes that were tied together with a ribbon. “See? I know it’s a bit cliché with the ribbon, because they aren’t love letters. These are my correspondences with Alicia.”
Lancelot stood and walked over to her. He ran his finger over the flowery box with a grin. “This looks like something my nan would have had.” Then he glanced at the envelopes. “Even the stationary does. I swear my nan had that very pattern. Flowers on the inside of the envelope. She thought it was very classy.”
She pulled out the topmost letter with a laugh, then flipped up the slightly torn backflap to reveal the floral paper within. “Your nan had excellent taste. And actually, this type of floral pattern is back in fashion. Though I’m not sure it was ever out of fashion here in the Carolinas.”
Lancelot took the envelope, pretending to peer at the floral lining. When Sylvia glanced away, he flipped it over to check the postmark, his face serious for a moment before the smile was back in place. He handed Sylvia the envelope.
“Is she still teaching?” Hugo asked, making sure to keep the question casual, like he didn’t care about the answer and was just trying to keep the conversation going.
“No. She retired a few months ago. Out of the blue, really. I’ve only spoken to her once since then.” Then Sylvia looked up at Lancelot. “You’re very tall, aren’t you?”
Lancelot flashed her a smile. “According to me mum, there must have been a giant or two swinging around on our family tree.”
“I like that.” Sylvia walked back to her notebook, jotting something down.
“What are you writing?” Lancelot asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“The inspiration for my poems comes from others. My dad calls me a professional eavesdropper. I love listening to people talk, tell stories, or share anecdotes, then I try and understand the why of it. Why they decided to tell that story. Why they felt the way they did. I try to hear what they don’t say, see what they can’t. Like the giants on your family tree. That’s such a clever concept, turn of phrase. I can almost see those two giants, swinging from the branches of your family tree.”
“That’s cool,” Lancelot said. “I don’t think that way. Mum made that giant comment a million times while I kept growing taller. Never once imagined the actual giants. Now I am.”
“The real question will be, what are the giants?”
“Oh, uh, so not real giants.”
“Of course real giants, but not just physical giants. What is it that’s in your family tree—your past, your inescapable genetic code—that defines you? Your height is one of the things that defines you, but how has that shaped you? Why is it the first thing I noticed when I looked at you? Why is it that stories of giants—people larger than average—are so prevalent in different cultures’ stories and mythologies? What is it about tall people that we both revere and fear?”
Lancelot and Hugo both looked at her. Lancelot cleared his throat. “I think my grandad was just really tall…”
