As the saying went: poor in a bustling city, no one asked after you; rich in the deep mountains, long-lost relatives came calling.
Thoughts from afar and spam letters could always cross towering mountains and deep valleys, sparing no effort to reach one's desk—or wastebasket.
As life at the Monastery gradually settled down, the number of letters grew by the day, until time had to be specifically set aside to deal with them.
Nearly half the letters came from Dunling. They traveled by ship to Westminster, then completed the rest of the journey by horse and on foot. The party usually consisted of two or three messengers, most accompanied by armed escorts and at least one trusted, stubborn servant.
The former were responsible for protecting several pages of flowery yet practically meaningless words; the latter ensured their master's true intentions were conveyed accurately.
This meant they did not simply toss something into the mailbox by the door and leave. They would patiently remain for days, until they could relay the matter face-to-face to the recipient himself and take away a reply bearing a handwritten signature and wax seal.
So, regrettably, even in an age before electronic devices were invented, reading a message and not replying still required a very thick skin.
A little under half wanted a share of the currently booming medicine trade. Based on their own understanding, they offered high prices for real or imaginary "technical details"; the more roundabout ones suggested sending less-valued juniors here for further study, thereby forging long-term ties.
A polite, appropriate refusal was enough to send them away. It took little thought.
The remaining majority were far more troublesome: patients and their families seeking treatment, who had either believed exaggerated rumors or been referred by helpless colleagues in the profession. They hoped to