[The first package Maggie sends Raylan after he leaves contains a handful of polished stones in rich blues and greens, a delicately carved wooden goose in flight with its wings outstretched, a packet of tea, half a dozen gold-dusted chocolate truffles, a little gold key without any corresponding lock... and a video file, which will explain the seemingly random assortment.]

This month's flood is absolute fairy tale nonsense. Saying nice things summons up nice things, and vice versa. Like those stories where jewels and pearls or snakes and bugs would pop into existence. Since I'm not feeling particularly spiteful, I'm having a great time.

It's also been good for some over-the-top romance, and I didn't think you should miss out just because you're not here. I know we don't really do poetry together in this life, but I was thinking of Mason and his Mags. So I figured I'd try this and see what turns up. For old time's sake. And for future.

[She'll give him a crooked smile before she raises a book and reads the same poem Mags read Mason that first night she took him home, right before they kissed: Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver. Every once in awhile she has to reach out and catch something as she speaks.]

I'm good at carving out exactly the sort of place I want for myself, but I could be happy in lots of places. You're the place I'm choosing. I can't wait to see what that looks like, darling.