From Ye Drye Cleanner

Lady Macbeth,

I have in my possession an elegant gown which your manservant has delivered for cleaning along with your express instructions.

Having devoted some hours to the task, however, I am forced to concede that the dark crimson spot to which you refer remains elusive and invisible, even to my practised eye, which I trust has served your household well on many past occasions.

At the risk of offense, however unintended, I now presume to inquire as to whether you, in your infinite kindess, might provide some further guidance as to the location of the undesirable discoloration? Your wisdom is matched only by your beauty, if I may be so bold as to take such notice.

Your most humble servant,
M. Ising

* * *

Mr. Ising,

Yet here’s a spot.

Out, damned spot! out, I say!

One; two; why, then ’tis time to do’t.

Lady Macbeth

* * *

Lady Macbeth,

I wouldst fain comply with your command and make the garment full ready for dispatch by the single stroke of the clock, e’en this very afternoon.

But still I fear I have not made clear my previous missive’s purpose. The spot of which you speak will not reveal itself, nay, hides its crimson stain in plainest sight. Is’t possible the garment sent unto my care is incorrectly tendered?

Lest you doubt my aging vision or my competence, I take care to note that I have recently been commissioned to clean considerable blood from a few uniforms of the late King’s guard. It is to this formidable task I shall devote my professional attention until I receive such clarification as milady, well-endowed in all a woman’s gifts, may deem appropriate.

Awaiting your response,
M. Ising

* * *

Mr. Ising,

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

Lady Macbeth

* * *

Lady Macbeth,

Ah, perhaps now I comprehend your meaning, and beg your forgiveness for any misapprehension of your earlier communication.

I have now removed and neutralised all possible odour from the garment using a proprietary process, handed down within my family from father to son for these several generations. This past hour’s labours have rendered the fabric fresh as the lily of the field, though with no trace of any floral aroma.

The garment itself, pressed and wrapped with utmost care by my own humble hand, accompanies this letter, and I trust the result, worn newly close against your noble and attractive form, will satisfy your most exacting expectation.

Your devoted and affectionate servant,
M. Ising

* * *

Mr. Ising,

Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale.

I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on’s grave.

Lady Macbeth

* * *

Lady Macbeth,

These kind words do anticipate my present state of mind—your task addressed, the King’s guard satisfied, I sit at last at leisure sweet with thee to correspond.

These past few days have made me addle-pated, and the meaning of your second note eludes me. The accounts of our dear, departed Thane were all well-settled long before his most untimely death, and while I am sure I share your husband’s sorrow, and your own, my business has no need to trouble his estate.

I jest, of course, but if I knew not better, I should wonder if your continued letters do not bespeak some personal affiliation and connection between our most disparate stations. I jest, I jest, in truth I jest. But I will here set down that my listening ear and ready shoulder stand always at your elegant disposal, should late affairs of state weigh too heavily upon thy lovely head.

With all appropriate affection and respect,
M. Ising

* * *

Mr. Ising,

To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what’s done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed.

Lady Macbeth

* * *

My dearest Lady Macbeth,

O how my heart does leap for joy!

I can only surmise that your custom has become Cupid’s channel, through which my abiding love has at last made itself fully known to your grace’s tender bosom.

I am moreover gratified, nay, elated to receive this your invitation most discreet, to know that heart and mind and body all shall meet in loving reverie.

I shall be at your gate, your bed, your tender side posthaste.

With deepest love and burgeoning desire,
M. Ising