After dispatching my missive on the ethereal winds, I must confess I had little hope. Although my faith in my readers is incalculable, my wanderings have taken me far, and I had begun to believe that I had seen all that has been given to mortal eye to see, and that my readers would be merely recounting tales already well known to me.

But sing a new song, O doubting heart! Through a variety of means -- some humble, some ingenious -- you dear readers have sent word of old books for which the dust of age only strengthens the potency of the enchantments within, like some secret wine. I've heard of other books too, newer perhaps, their charms accordingly more fallible but perhaps not more feeble.

Two books were commended to me, and two names without books commended also. That the numbering of the books matched the numbering of the names seemed auspicious to me. Of the books, the first is called "The Book of the New Sun" as written by Gene Wolfe; the second hight "The Gift" by Alison Croggan, an author from my own country. My hopes for the first are high, for the second, low. Though a prophet is seldom honored in his own town, my bigoted heart says an author is perhaps too honored in her own country.

Two names without books were given. Though there are books to the names, the names were given to me without books and without books they shall be passed on. The names are Charles de Lint and George Macdonald. The second name was given to me by someone who has not read any of my missives, but who has certainly read me.

I have found some of these tomes, and in due course I shall venture into them. Even when all are read and gone, my quest will not be over. Your help, dear reader, is needed now more than ever. I await your reply with eagerness and indeed, hope.

I am etc.,