The Grand Adventures of Miss Bernice Sophronia Philomena Greenwater

AUTHOR POST: Sorry to get your hopes up

2009-01-29T21:43:00.003-07:00

Here come the excuses again, and for that I am really, seriously sorry, but there's just no way a new chapter is going to go up for... a little while. At least a week. I'm being brutally honest, here.

It's about 9:30pm as I' m starting this post, and this is the first time I've had all day to sit down and write. I got up early to go to the clinic and pick up a prescription. I came home, grabbed my work stuff, then changed at work and was there til a little after 6. I grocery shopped, grabbed dinner, ate dinner, did my Wii Fit for the day and... now here I am, at almost 10pm (yeah, got distracted for a few...) about to BEGIN Bernice's story.

Because I didn't use any of my time off to write, of course. I took some notes about plotty stuff, but that's about it. But dudes, I've been busy! Every single day off from work I've had, I've either been out of town, or running around town trying to keep my husband and I fed and in relatively clean clothing. By the end of the day, whether I work my paying job or not, my brain is so dead it can't come up with anything creative. If I try to force it, it's utter tripe.

Tomorrow I work til 4, have a meeting at the college then (I'm starting school again in June), come back to work for a committee meeting, then I get to come home about 7:30 from that and cook dinner. After some Wii Fit and a load of laundry, BAM, it's 10pm again. Saturday is my "catch-up" day, and I'm also meeting my mom for lunch (and driving an hour to do it) since I haven't seen her for about a month, then church that night. Sunday I'm doing nursery for the 9am church service, coming home to eat and change, then working til 8:30. Come home, dinner, Wii Fit, BAM 10pm. I work Monday-Wednesday, too. I can't give up my "girl night" on Wednesday. I need some knitting and chatting to stay sane. So that means it'll be... next Thursday before I can write anything, unless I miraculously find some time on Saturday.

I'm sorry! I'm so so sorry! If I could sit and write for half the day, cranking out chapter after chapter, I soooo would! If you all can somehow pay me as much as I'm making at my full-time retail job, I could quit that and stay home all day making up lovely characters and stories for your (and my) enjoyement. But until that day comes (HA!), I'm going to have to sneak in some writing whenever I can do it.

I'm not sure what this means for my Thursday-Sunday update schedule. As it stands now, I'll be out of town next Friday and Saturday, so there goes that. UGH! Why can't I just not have any social life, right? Darn those pesky friends and family members.

All this to say: I'll keep you posted. I'll write when I can, but I won't be able to get into a normal update schedule for at least a couple more weeks. Belive me, I want to write this story probably more than you want to read it. (Take that as you will.) And if this upsets some of you and you decide to give up on this novel, I don't blame you at all. I've done the same thing with other serial web novels/comics before. It happens, and it's your choice. Don't feel bad about it, and I'll try not to feel bad for disappointing you (even though I do!).

Wish me luck as I try and carve out a few hours here and there when I'm not completely brain dead in order to write more of Bernice's story. And for those of you who still occasionally click over here hoping for an update, thank you for your loyalty and patience.

P.S. Wow, I just re-read that and it was really rambly. What I was trying to say is that I technically have time to write, but when I get to a point where I actually have time, my brain is no longer productive. At least, it's incapable of producing anything anyone would want to read. So there's really no point in forcing the words if it's just drivel. Hopefully that's a little clearer, now.

AUTHOR POST: A Short Break

2009-01-17T20:56:00.002-07:00

Okay, here's the plan. I'm going to take off until the 28th of January in order to plot and plan and develop and outline. The next entry from Bernice's diary will go up on January 29th, at which point I'll resume my usual Thurs-Sun update schedule. This past week that I haven't written anything has just been... a vacation. Me being lazy. But I'm going to start working on it now, for real! And if I can't get it outlined all the way to the end, I'll at least get a decent outline (several weeks' worth) and a vague idea of where I want the story to end up. (I never go into a novel knowing how it will end, really.)

If you've been thinking of reading all of Bernice's Grand Adventures, this break would be a good time to get caught up to the present! Then you'll have new entries four times a week to continue reading. If you're already caught up, I'm sorry for the long gap between updates, but I really need to take this time to plan what the heck I'm doing with these poor characters.

Once updates resume, you can look forward to seeing a few familiar faces, and seeing more Illumination in action. (I at least know that much!) Thank you all for your patience!

AUTHOR POST

2009-01-10T20:05:00.002-07:00

Is anyone reading this? I'm just feeling rather BLEH about it right now, and I'm wondering if I should take a break to work out some more plot, then just write it when I have time, and not post it on the internet. Having a set schedule does help me crank out the words, but I feel like the plot and characterization suffers somewhat because I'm usually "in a rush" to write the post for the day. I don't and can't take the time to think things through, to plan far enough ahead to insert things that need time to develop, to look forward and steer things in one direction or another. And when/if I do think of such things, everything's already been posted and it's too late to add them in further back in the story.

I do like the story and the characters. I do want to finish it and, at the moment, I do want to edit it and send it out eventually. I think it could make a fun book, and I think people might like it. I just... I don't know. I'm not feeling motivated to make myself write 1,000-2,000 words per day, four days a week, if no one even cares when/if it goes up on the internet to read. Maybe I'll just wait to show it off until it's in novel form a couple years from now. ;)

Sorry to be such a downer. I don't want it to seem like I'm begging for comments or feedback. I really, really appreciate those who've commented or emailed me. Really. And I suppose not that many people know about this in the first place, so I shouldn't expect much. I'm just not in the most bestest of moods, and not loving the story right now. Can anyone offer any help? Ideas? Anything...?

Time Alone and Time Apart

2009-01-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

Zebediah and I fought today. I suppose it was nothing more than a little quarrel, but it was the first time we have been anything but kind and polite to each other (since we have been really together, I mean), and so it seemed worse than it really was.

All of yesterday, as I wrote last night, I did not see him but in passing. I spent my meals with Lucas and Ivy, telling them my whole tale, from the time I left Saint Anne's to the night I stepped through the entrance to the cavern. This morning I nearly slept through breakfast (I do not know how I could have stayed asleep through the general commotion of a dozen girls rising and readying for the day, then the noise of the meal in the main cavern!) so I had to eat very quickly to start my lessons on time.

At lunch, my feet took me to the place I had sat for the previous four meals: the edge of the room, which had a view of the whole place, where Lucas and Ivy sat, along with Edwin and Tulia, both from my group. However, I was intercepted before I made it to them; Zebediah stepped into my path and motioned me to follow him. Puzzled, I gave my friends a smile, then stepped into the kitchen with Zebediah. But he kept walking, slipping through the narrow crevasse in the far wall to go down the corridor further into the mountain. This is where we get our water, from the spring that trickles away through some other route. He stopped at the edge of the water, which I could only see dimly. Very little light shone in from the kitchen.

"What is the matter?" I asked. Zebediah didn't answer, but took a small lamp from his pocket and shook it, then set it on the floor at our feet. It cast a faint yellow glow, lighting the cavern enough that I could see the still, black water and the slightly damp stone walls near us.

While I was looking around--I had not yet been in this part of the caves--Zebediah took my hand and spelled on my palm, "I miss you."

"I miss you too," I murmured, and stepped a little closer to him. This was the first time we'd been alone since yesterday morning before breakfast.

"I do not see you," he told me, with gestures. "You are always busy, using your Gift, talking with others."

"They're my friends," I said. "And I must practice my Illumination. It's important." I hadn't yet had a chance to tell him what Lucas said yesterday, that Ivy had seen me in her visions, that I played an important part in what was to come.

"Am I not important?"

"Of course you are!" I cried softly, taking both his hands in mine and looking up into his blue eyes. "You are very important to me. I have never felt about someone the way I feel about you."

Zebediah pulled his hands away and looked around the cave, frustrated. "I am useless here," he told me. "I am not Gifted. I carry water, I serve food." He clenched his teeth and shook his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "It is what I did for years, but... I am done with that now! I thought I was! I want..."

I watched as he paced away from me and then back. "You want what?" I asked in a small voice.

"I want.... you." he said. "I want to be done with this. Running and hiding. Being hunted and tired and cold all the time. Illumination."

"Illumination is a part of my life now," I countered, frowning at him. "A part of me. You cannot be done with it if you are to remain with me." That hurt me rather deeply, that he did not like my Gift, or being around it. "And you cannot be done with it if you want us to win this war."

He looked at me, confused, wondering what I meant. Briefly, I told him what Lucas had said about Ivy's visions, and what Ivy herself had told me, which was not much.

"I do not like it," Zebediah said, scowling.

"I don't like it either," I said, "but it is going to happen. This war, my part in it. Your part in it. You will be at my side all the while," I assured him. "I want you at my side."

"I do not know that I trust what they say. Lucas," he said, spelling the name on my hand, then pausing half a second before writing, "and Ivy," in addition.

I yanked my hand out of his. "You do not like them because they are not you." But that didn't make sense, didn't come out the way I wanted it. I shook my head, squinting my eyes shut. "You are jealous. Do you want all of my time and attention? I cannot give it all to you! Lucas is young and handsome, yes, I admit it. That is what bothers you."

He flinched, and I saw that I had hit the nail on the head. "He likes you, I see it."

"He is kind and charming, nothing more. He is my friend. Do you not trust me? Is that why you are upset?"

Zebediah stared hard at me and didn't say anything.

"You don't?" I nearly shrieked. It did not occur to me until afterwards that anyone near the kitchen could probably hear most of what I said. (Still, that was only half the conversation.) "Why? When have I ever given you reason to distrust me, Zebediah?" Tears filled my eyes. That hurt more than the fact that he didn't like my Illumination. "They are my friends," I said softly, pleading with him with my eyes to understand. "I have never had friends, but for a little girl at the orphanage. The other girls were merely... there. Let me have this. Please."

He stared at me a moment more; I could see the muscles of his jaw tense over and over as he clenched his teeth. "You are rash. You jump into things without thinking about them."

"What?"

He went on, ignoring the protestations I tried to make. "You are over-eager. You will hurt yourself, with your Gift, with your friends. I am afraid, Bernice. For you. For us."

"I would never do anything to hurt you," I whispered, my heart breaking, each word he spoke chipping another little piece away.

"Not on purpose," he spelled on his own hand, and took a step toward me, but I turned away and retreated. He did not trust me, he thought I was foolish. The worst part was that I agreed with him, to some extent. Much of what had occurred recently had been my own fault. I wandered alone in Sun City and was kidnapped. I pushed Captain Winters until he snapped at me. This whole adventure began because I wanted too much: to find a family I knew in my heart did not exist. The things I had avoided were merely by luck: the Tourbillion appeared just before we would have landed in Franklin Bay; I was in town when the Erebos came to the school. It is a miracle I have survived as long as I have!

"You are right," I said in a small voice. "I don't... I don't think I have a place here. Or with you."

I didn't look up, but I heard him sigh and shuffle his feet. Then his footsteps sounded and grew more faint as he returned to the kitchen.

I was not alone for long, however. Ivy came into the cave a moment after. "Sorry for eavesdropping," she said softly, reaching down to pick up the lamp, "but the look in his eyes when he came to get you scared me. I did not want anything bad to happen to you."

"I am fine," I whispered, my voice breaking on the last word. "And he would never hurt me."

"Clearly, he has," Ivy said, and stepped close in order to put her free arm around me. I leaned into her just slightly; it had been ages, it seemed, since I had a young woman to confide in, a female friend. A few tears dropped from my eyes, wetting the shoulder of her blouse. "Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

I thought for a moment, but then drew back, shaking my head. "It is nothing. Everything he said is true."

"Not everything," said Ivy. "Lucas is not in love with you," she said with a little smirk, "nor do you love him. That much is clear."

I had known as much, but hearing the words from someone who was certain did disappoint me a little. Lucas' attention was nice, and I think some part of me liked that it made Zebediah upset. I had liked feeling wanted and admired. "Obviously," I said, looking out over the water so I didn't have to look at her.

"It's nothing personal," she told me. "You are just... so very claimed."

"What do you mean?"

"He does not let you see it," she said, still smiling, "but your Mr. Miller throws such longing looks your way. He would lie down in front of a train for you. He would go hungry so you could eat, or thirsty so you could drink."

"He has," I murmured, thinking of the days in the forest when he would insist I ate half his share of the bread, claiming he wasn't hungry. "With the food, I mean. I hope he never lays in front of a train for me."

"But he would," Ivy told me, her eyes very serious. "If it would save you, he would. Do not dismiss yourself or your relationship so easily. He looks at you the way my father looks at my mother, and they are two of the happiest people I have ever known, despite the hard work they have to do and all the trials they have endured."

That was comforting, for certain, though I did not think Ivy's parents had been pursued by airship pirates or threatened by murderous Loyalists. Although, now I think about it, perhaps they had been, in the war. "Thank you," I murmured.

"It is only the truth," she said with a smile, then she took my hand. "Come and eat your lunch. It is almost time for lessons to resume." I followed her back through the corridor, through the kitchen, and out into the main cavern. I did not see Zebediah again until supper, when he stayed far away from me, but Ivy urged me to give him time. I was asked to help with a demonstration during the talk after our meal, and now I am lying on my little bed, most of the rest of the girls around me asleep.

Things will be better in the morning. I will find him and speak to him, and we will mend things. I care for him too much to do anything else.

Breakfast Made and Breakfast Shared

2009-01-05T10:37:00.001-07:00

I asked Lucas today, "What of your parents, your family? Do they know you have fled the school and are hiding out in the mountains?"

Chores rotated between students, and today I was awoken early, and in charge of making coffee for breakfast. However, I had never made coffee before, so Lucas was showing me how.

"I hope not," he said, measuring out spoonfuls of dark, fragrant grounds. "I don't imagine the headmaster would be able to keep it quiet, though, if two dozen of his students were accused of Illumination and then suddenly vanished."

"So they have been notified?"

"I would assume so, yes." He took the big ladle from the nearest barrel of water, and started measuring out how much to put in the coffee pots. "Five in this one," he told me, apparently not wanting to discuss it further, "four in these, and just three in this one." The pots were all different sizes, having seemingly been gathered from scrap heaps. Then he showed me how to build up the fire, and where to place the pots on the grate above it. But when we were through, he didn't leave me there to watch the coffee percolate. He sat back on his heels and said, "Here, let's have a bit of a treat. I won't tell if you won't." He got an apple from one of the crates, then poked around for a while until he found a long, metal skewer and speared the apple with it. "Careful not to scorch it," he said, slipping it between the grate above the fire and the walls around it, and holding it near the flames. Then he handed the end of the skewer to me.

I watched the flames for a minute, rotating the apple slowly. The girls and I used to do the same thing at Saint Anne's, on our Saturday off. When we had the apples, at least. We never went hungry, but depending on who was donating and when and how much, we had either bread and water with a little hard cheese, warm beef stew with lots of vegetables, or anything in between.

"Bernice." I realized I had been lost in my thoughts, and looked up at Lucas when he said my name. "Last night when Ivy had her... episode. She saw you."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I spoke to her and waved my hand before her face, but she did not even blink."

"No," he said. "She saw you." He looked at me with intensely hazel eyes, and I understood. She had seen me in the future.

"Ye-es?" I prompted, a little nervous because of the way he was looking at me. It seemed I was about to receive some bad news.

"The apple," he said, and I looked over to see it had almost dipped into the ashes. I righted it quickly, resting the skewer on the edge of the wall of the little fire pit.

"Mr. Jenkins," I said, calling him that to get his attention. "Please tell me what she saw. At this point, I think very little would shock me." I managed a small smile.

He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling the dark hair at his nape and staring into the fire. "She... You..." He sighed. "You need to be prepared," he said, looking up at me. "You need to hone your Gift quickly and well. Whatever's been coming, it will be here soon. And it seems you are to play a large part in it."

"What... what is coming?" I asked nervously.

"The war." He looked surprised, as if I should have known this already. "Didn't Professor Eberhart tell you?"

"He kept referring to a 'conflict,' and he told me about... well, about our parents, the Libertists, and the Loyalists. But I know about all that from school."

"There is another one on the horizon," Lucas said grimly. "'Conflict' sounds somewhat better, but it is what it is: a war. Only this one will be fought with Illumination instead of swords and bullets and bombs. Ivy saw it coming years ago."

"I don't understand." Without thinking about it, I was still rotating the apple slowly. "We are here--I am here--training to fight in a war?" The professor had told me as much back at the academy weeks ago, but I suppose I didn't realize what he meant. I suppose I thought I would be on the sidelines, if such a thing were to happen, doing... I know not what.

"Yes, Bernice," Lucas said softly. "All of us will be."

"But why... children? Many here are not yet past the age of majority. How can anyone send children into battle?"

His expression grew still more grim. "We need the numbers," he said quietly. "The professor has been in contact with many of our parents, as many as have agreed to help. Those who knew what was happening could chose to send their children to be trained, or not. That's where there are so few of us here. There are as many out there as there are in here, whose families have not been willing to lend them to the cause. I suppose I can't blame them," he shrugged, looking sad. "I don't think I would want to send my son or daughter into battle, either."

"What about your parents?" I asked.

"My mother is too frightened to do anything, and my father must never know of my Gift, or hers, which of course she keeps hidden. He'd want to use us for his own benefit, us and anyone else he knew was Illuminated."

I watched the apple spin slowly, flames licking over its sides. It had grown a darker red; we should test it soon to see how far inside it had cooked. "So we are to fight? All of us here, and some of those who were in the first war, who came out of the cave with Illumination?" He nodded. "That means the fate of the country could rest upon... fifty or sixty people?"

"It's not that bad," Lucas was quick to say. "Ivy's seen that the other side--the Britannians and the Loyalists here--have only a dozen or so. And there's another little group on the far coast, I think near Chester, North Jefferson. Something similar happened there a couple years before the end of the war. Some Libertists came across a Sacred Crystal and Illuminated themselves. Not as many of them survived, but... Well, Professor Eberhart told us the whole story once, and I can't remember all of it. But they--the Gifted--all ran off together to hide away, and they've been working on their powers since then. They're very strong, very skilled. And their children, too. So that's another two dozen, I think."

I turned the apple slowly, thinking. "Why not make a whole army of Illuminated people?" I asked after a moment. "We found the crystals once, right? Why not use them again?"

"No one knows where they are," Lucas said sadly. "They were entrusted to someone at the end of the war, and hidden away.

"And no one knows where to find them, or who hid them?" I asked skeptically.

"Well, I certainly don't. I'm sure if their keeper saw that they were needed, he--or she, I suppose--would put them to use. But we've just got to trust that whoever it is that has them is wise and careful." He shrugged. "Let's check our apple, shall we?"

I let him take the skewer from me. He drew it up out of the pit, then lay the apple on top of a crate and used a knife to slice into it. "Perfect!" He cut it in half, causing it to fall off the skewer. "Too bad we don't have any butter or sugar. Ohh, or cinnamon! But anyway." He picked up one half, using the very tips of his fingers. "Cheers," he said as he handed me the other half, and bumped them together like champagne glasses.

I took a careful bite of mine, sucking in air at the same time to cool it in my mouth. The tang of the apple was certainly present, but if I used my imagination, it almost tasted like the inside of an apple pie, warm and soft with spices. I used to play this game with Maggie, during the harder times when all we had for supper was the same bread we'd eaten for a week. We'd tell each other what we wanted it to be instead, and share how it tasted.

It must've shown on my face, how much I missed her, for Lucas tried to distract me. "You're doing really well with the rope thing," he said. "And you're the best I've seen at forming earth. The people you make are so realistic! And I've never seen anyone make them move the way you can."

"Thank you," I said with a small smile.

We were spared further awkward conversation by Zebediah's entrance to the room. He stopped just inside the doorway when he saw the two of us sitting before the fire, frowning a little, but I put his concern to rest. "Come here," I said softly, and he crouched next to me. I held the apple out to him. "Careful, it's hot."

He held my hand in both of his, just his fingertips touching, and leaned forward to take a bite of the apple, his eyes on my face the whole while. I do not know why, but the sight of him leaning over my hands and looking up at me sent a shiver down my spine, in a good way. Then he sat back and chewed, also inhaling through his mouth to cool it. "Good?" I asked, and he nodded. "After days of raw apples, this is a welcome change." He nodded again, then pointed at the coffee pots. "Are they finished yet?" I asked Lucas in his stead.

He checked on them, then pointed to the smallest one. "This is," he said. "Would you like a cup?"

"Zebediah would," I answered. "I'm content with my apple for now." Lucas poured a tin mug full of the dark coffee and handed it to Zebediah, who accepted it, but did not exactly give a kind look to Lucas. Seeming to sense this, he stood. "If you wouldn't mind filling the cups when those are finished, that would be swell," Lucas said to me. "Set them out on the table." He was referring to the planks laid across the tops of two barrels out in the main cavern, from which everyone picked up their meals. "Ivy will come and help you with the rest of it in a bit." He gave me an encouraging smile, then left Zebediah and I alone.

I gave him a few more bites of my apple as he sat and sipped his coffee. Now and then the fire would pop, but since no one else was awake yet, we were in a companionable silence. "Missed you," he spelled on my palm.

"Missed you too," I murmured. "We've been so busy."

He moved around to sit beside me and put his arm around my shoulders; I leaned against him, glad for these few minutes in private with him. He kissed the top of my head, then leaned his cheek there. I don't think I could have been more content were we in a palace surrounded by every luxury.

Then we heard footsteps behind us, and Ivy sang out, "Good morning! My, don't you two look cozy." She leaned right in between us to pick up one of the coffee pots with a spare rag, so as not to burn her hand. Zebediah and I had no choice but to lean apart as she lifted the lid and peeked inside. "All done!" she declared, and set the pot down. "You're on coffee duty this morning, aren't you, Bernice? Zebediah and I can help you set the cups out."

We had no choice but to stand up and do as she said; she and Zebediah took the cups out to the table two by two as I filled them. Then I began cutting up the stale bread while Ivy did the apples, and Zebediah carried out the stacks of each on big trays. Once that was done, nearly everyone was awake and it was time for breakfast. Unfortunately I was not able to be alone with Zebediah for the remainder of the day, as we were both kept too busy to do more than smile at each other from across the room.

One Entwined and A Remarkable Gift

2009-01-04T08:16:00.000-07:00

Two interesting things happened today. By "interesting," I mean out of the ordinary routine from what is usual here in the caverns. Luckily neither incidence was life-threatening, as has been almost normal for "interesting" events in my life lately.

The first came during our morning practice session. Miss Means was just telling me that I was still pulling too hard, as she put it, when trying to build the stick house with my group members when there was a commotion from the other side of the room. The already-shaky foundation of our house collapsed as all four of us lost our concentration on our Gift and looked away. A boy was screaming and a crowd had gathered around him. Wide-eyed, Miss Means rushed toward him, and I saw Mr. Jenkins hurrying over from another side of the room. Slowly, everyone was drifting toward the boy, who was obviously in pain. I heard murmurs, but could not tell what anyone was saying.

"Patrick!" Miss Means shouted, pushing her way through the crowd.

From the other side, Mr. Jenkins was yelling the boy's name as well. "Pat!" I was used to having to fight for my view, growing up with so many other girls at Saint Anne's, so I managed to slip between shoulders and hips and elbows until I was on the inside edge of the ring of onlookers. "Come on, it's all right, it was an accident," Mr. Jenkins said. "You've got to let go now. Let Oliver go." It seemed they were not talking to the boy who was screaming, but another boy who was pale and trembling, standing near the other boy and staring at him as though entranced. The boy named Oliver was wrapped tightly with the rope we had all been using for practice; I could see it cutting into his wrists and leaving red burn marks. He was trapped, from his ankles to his shoulders. "Pat." Mr. Jenkins shook the young man's shoulders. He had longish brown hair and his clothes, though they were the same school uniform that all the other boys wore, looked somewhat shabbier.

"Patrick!" Miss Means patted his cheek hard, then drew her arm back and slapped his face! Finally he blinked and looked up at her. "Patrick, stop this now." She pointed at the screaming boy. "Let him go."

He stared at Oliver for a moment, then took a deep breath. As he exhaled, the ropes slackened and fell to the ground. Panting and wild-eyed, Oliver stepped out of the coil. Mr. Jenkins caught him just as he lost his legs and would've crumpled to the floor.

"This way," Miss Means told Patrick, putting an arm around his shoulders. Despite her violence a moment ago, she looked nothing but kind and caring now as she led him into the kitchen, the only place they could be alone without going into one of the "dormitory" rooms.

Gradually, the other students began to drift back to their stations. "Everyone's fine!" Mr. Jenkins shouted. "Back to your lessons!" He helped Oliver limp across the room and sat him down so he could lean against the wall. I followed them at a slight distance, and waited until Mr. Jenkins looked up and noticed me before speaking.

"What happened?" I asked softly, coming a little nearer.

As Oliver seemed content to sit with his eyes closed for a while, Mr. Jenkins stood. "An accident," he said again. "None of us know the full extent of our powers, and sometimes... something goes out of control. Pat got the rope too tight, and when Oliver began to panic, so did Pat. He drew the ropes tighter and tighter, and couldn't focus enough to stop."

"Will he be all right?" I asked, looking at the wounds on Oliver's hands, only able to imagine the bruises on his legs and ribs and arms.

"He will," answered Mr. Jenkins. "We have a box of medicinal supplies for emergencies. Mostly I just think he's frightened."

I nodded. I couldn't blame him.

"Thank you for your concern, but you should go back to your lessons, Bernice." His use of my given name made me stop short and give him a puzzled, displeased look. "There is no need to stand on ceremony here, don't you think?" he asked with an easy smile. "Out here in the wilderness, far from civilization. Besides, we all must work together, and to do that, we must all be friends. So... friends?" He held out his hand.

I took it without hesitation, though it did take me another second or two to echo him: "Friends."

"That's better," he grinned, squeezing my hand once before letting go. I wandered back to my group a little puzzled, and more than a little concerned for... well, for several things. The rest of the day passed uneventfully but for the second incident.

Everyone was finishing their supper and preparing for the debriefing to come. Each night, a different person speaks on something they have learned about Illumination that day, or something they had read about in one of the books Professor Eberhart had sent with them. Tips to help the rest of the students, or encouraging stories of people from the past who were Illuminated. Every few days, I was told, they would also read a letter from the professor which he had somehow managed to get up here. (I should ask about the method; do they have carrier pigeons I have not seen? Does a student meet him halfway down the mountain in the middle of the night?

Before the talk for the night began, I returned to the girls' side of the cavern to quickly retrieve my coat, as I was rather cold now my coffee had been drunk and we were getting ready to settle down for the evening. The room was empty but for one bed, which was odd, as everyone should have been in the main cavern.

The figure on the bed was Ivy. She appeared to have fallen, as her legs were tangled in her skirt, and one arm was trapped beneath her body in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. She was whispering unintelligibly, staring straight ahead like she had seen a ghost. Her gaze was so intense that I actually turned around to see what she was looking at, but there was nothing there. "Miss Means?" I asked, creeping closer. "Ivy?" She did no respond, even when I waved my hand in front of her face.

My only thought was that she was having some sort of fit, and needed help. I threw back the curtain in the doorway and shouted for Lucas, who appeared a moment later. Zebediah was right behind him, no doubt having heard my shout as well. "I came in and saw her like this," I told Lucas.

He dropped to his knees beside her, then turned to look at me. "Paper!" he demanded. "And a pen. Quickly!"

I dithered where I stood for a moment, thinking that a bizarre request, given the circumstances, but Zebediah reached into one of the pockets on his trousers to bring out a small notebook, the pages of which were bound together by some rough twine, and a smudgy pencil. (Later he told me he had asked for both items and made a book from the paper, so as to always have some way of communicating with people who did not understand his hang gestures.)

Lucas yanked both from his hands, then leaned down to listen to Ivy. He started writing as fast as he could, simply ripping off the top page when it was full and going on to the next. When Ivy paused for breath, he took a second to stack the papers on the next bed in the order in which they had been written, then he was back to writing. It seemed he was copying down what she said.

"What are you--" I began to ask, but he shushed me and shook his head, eyes never leaving the paper and pencil. I moved closer to Zebediah and he put his arm around my shoulders. I have seen him only at meals for the past few days; after having spent nearly every moment with him, day and night, for weeks before that, I have found myself missing him, and was glad for his nearness.

A few minutes later, Ivy trailed off seemingly in the middle of a sentence, though I could not hear what she was saying. Lucas waited at her side a moment more, pencil poised, but her eyes drifted closed. Whatever had happened, it was finished now.

Lucas took his time gathering up the scribbled-on papers. He shifted Ivy so she was lying on her back, and even tugged at the hem of her skirt so it lay flat over her legs. He gave her one last, rather sad look, then came over to where Zebediah and I stood. "Sorry about that," he said softly, as if he might wake her. "She is fine. You did well to come and get me, Bernice. If that ever happens again, call me. Or better yet, do what I did, and take down what she says."

"Why did you do that?" I asked, also in a soft voice. "What was she saying? And why did she not respond when I spoke to her?"

He hesitated, shuffling the papers in his hands. What was left of the notebook, he returned to Zebediah, as well as the pencil. "Ivy... sees the future," he said slowly. "I know it is difficult to believe, but you have absorbed quite a lot of new information in the past few weeks, and have witnessed things most people think impossible. So believe me," he urged. "She sees the future. Professor Eberhart says it is unusual, but not unheard of, in those who are Illuminated. It just... happens. She collapses and goes into a sort of trance. When she was small, her family thought she was having seizures, and tried to hide it. She wouldn't be marriageable if that were the case; no one would want to risk her having children with the same affliction, not to mention the disgrace of one of her 'episodes' occurring in public. Heaven forbid," he scoffed, rolling his eyes, obviously thinking her family's concern was misplaced. "But once we got to the academy, the professor recognized it for what it is."

"So she was... giving predictions just now?" I asked.

"Exactly. It seems like gibberish at first, but when she wakes up, we'll go over it together. She even has a special book she keeps everything in, so we'll copy it down there. Or rather, she will," he smiled. "My handwriting is atrocious."

"Then what?" I felt the gentle pressure of Zebediah's fingertips on the small of my back and looked up at him, but his eyes were on Ivy's prone figure, a little ways away from us.

"We... decipher them. As best as we can. For example, if she does not know the name of the person she 'sees,' she will describe him. Once in a while, Professor Eberhart will recognize someone, but not often. He'll be here in a week, at least, so we only have that long to wait to show him this."

I, too, was watching Ivy. She looked peaceful, like nothing had happened. "Is there anything I may do?" I asked, my eyes still on her.

"Thank you, but no," said Lucas. "Everyone else here knows, so you needn't worry about keeping a secret. I would just rather you didn't go out there and blab that Ivy had another bout of prophecy," he told me with a small smile. "We need a little time alone to sort out the latest batch."

"Understood." I gave a small curtsey, then Zebediah and I left to hear what was left of the debriefing.

Can you imagine, Dear Reader, seeing the future? Falling into a trance and muttering strange things, only to wake up and.... I wonder if she remembers these episodes, or if she awakens entirely ignorant of anything that had happened. How awful it would be to wake alone, finding yourself on the floor with no recollection of the past few minutes! I know that Lucas assured me she was all right, but I still cannot help but worry for her. She is blunt and odd, but we are all here together, as Lucas keeps saying. We are friends, and I do not want anything bad to happen to her.

Practice Had and Histories Learnt

2009-01-03T00:40:00.000-07:00

Today was spent much like yesterday, and so I shall not bore you, Dear Reader, by repeating myself. Instead I shall relate the events of last night.

After supper (which was exactly like breakfast except that the coffee was more bitter) everyone gathered in the main cavern, sitting on the stone floor and facing the rear of the room (that is, the side opposite the entry). Mr. Mason got up in front of everyone and began speaking of something I did not know, naming off locations and people that did not sound familiar. I was at the back of the group with Zebediah, and did not notice that Miss Means had snuck up behind us until she put her hand on my shoulder. "Come with me," she whispered. Though we were silent, and the light in the cavern was dim, I still felt nearly every pair of eyes in the room follow us as we headed toward the far end, through a short passageway and into what served as the kitchen. Miss Means lit a candle, then used it to light one more; those served us well enough for light in the small room. There were barrels and boxes stacked against the walls, and a fire pit with nothing inside but warm coals. A couple of kettles sat on the grate over the pit, and there was a large basin filled with water in which sat all the used coffee cups from dinner. Had she brought us here to do dishes while the other students learned important information?

Mr. Jenkins appeared after a moment, seeming very cheery as usual. "There you are," he said, and sat down cross-legged on the floor. As Miss Means followed his example, so did Zebediah and I. "We just wanted to fill you in," he told us, "since you kind of got here in the middle of things."

"Might I say one thing first?" Miss Means interjected, looking both apologetic and defiant, if that is possible. "The others think you're stuck up, keeping to yourselves like you've done. I just thought I'd let you know."

I think my jaw dropped open out of pure shock. How could she speak to us in such a way? "I... beg your pardon?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound too rude, though she would've deserved it.

"I'd like for you two to get along here all right," Miss Means went on as if she had done nothing more than remark upon the weather. "And if that's going to happen, we need to work together. All of us."

"What Ivy means to say," Mr. Jenkins interrupted, winking comically at Miss Means over the pun he thought he had been clever to make, "is that the other kids--er, young adults, or what-have-you--aren't too sure about you. But we would like for everyone to be friends, so... don't be shy, all right?" He flashed me a smile. I felt Zebediah tense next to me, and lean ever so slightly closer. "We don't bite."

"I... shall try. We shall," I said. I reached down to take Zebediah's hand. "It's just that... we have been so used to relying only on ourselves for weeks. Indeed, we had no other company but each other for almost a week straight. And we have... come to understand that we cannot trust everyone--or anyone--at first sight."

"Why do you say that?" asked Mr. Jenkins.

I hesitated, looking at Zebediah. He met my gaze and shook his head very slightly. "It is... a long story," I said, trusting him in that we should wait to tell our tale.

"It's going to be a long night," Miss Means countered, drawing her knees up to wrap her arms around them.

Again, I hesitated. Mr. Jenkins must have noticed, for he said, "Let's tell her our story first, Ivy. The whole story. So she knows she can trust us."

I know now that even if a person tells one "the whole story," that doesn't mean one can or should trust them. The whole thing could very well be a lie. But I was at least willing to listen.

"I don't know where your Gift came from," Mr. Jenkins began, "but ours, almost all of us in this place, got it from our parents. And they got it from a cave very like this one."

"In the war," I said, thrilled at the thought that I actually knew something he was talking about.

"That's right," Mr. Jenkins said, looking a little puzzled.

"Professor Eberhart told me. That's where I got it, too. My parents... must have been with your parents! In the cavern, trapped by the Loyalists!" I suddenly felt an odd sort of kinship with Mr. Jenkins and Miss Means and everyone else here with us. We were related, in a way, through a common past. I'd never felt like I was related to anyone but the people I made up in my head, relatives that never were and never would be.

"Right," said Mr. Jenkins, looking a little disappointed that he hadn't been able to tell me the whole tale in what, I am sure, would have been a very exciting and amusing way. He is a very charming young man (and if I guess right, I think that is probably why Zebediah does not like him), and I am sure he would have told it splendidly.

"How did you all come to be here?" I asked. "Well, the professor told me that. How you came to be here, in this cave. But how did all you who are Illuminated get to be in one place, at the academy?"

"Ahh, that's the interesting bit," said Mr. Jenkins, his previous smile lighting back up. "Because some of our parents had different names than when they were involved with the war, or some had a different name during the war, then went back to their real name afterwards." This was exactly what happened to me! But I said nothing, allowing him to continue. "Professor Eberhart managed to keep tabs on them all, though, through coded letters and wires, and secret gatherings--"

"Stop it," Miss Means sighed, rolling her eyes. "He is speculating about all of this. All we know is that Professor Eberhart helped to get us all here, one way or another."

"But that makes for a much more interesting story!" Mr. Jenkins protested. He sighed and turned his attention back to Zebediah and me. "Regardless, here we are. Some of us were at the academy on scholarship, having come from less than prosperous families. I think there might've been a fund set aside years ago to help with anything that might come up concerning the Illuminated families and their childr--"

"Speculation," sang out Miss Means, examining her nails.

"Anyway," Mr. Jenkins went on, "he gathered us all at the academy, a couple at a time so as not to raise suspicion. He is close with the headmaster, who, by the way, was totally ignorant of there being any Illuminated students at his school. Ivy and I have been here since we were twelve, which is when they start out at the academy. Some other students have just begun this term. So our levels of skill at Illumination are greatly varied."

"I only learned of my gift a few weeks ago," I said softly.

"But you are doing quite well already," said Miss Means, rather unexpectedly. She had been rather brusque with me up until that point, but her voice and expression were earnest. "I watched you today, and you have surpassed many of the students that have been practicing for years. How old are you?" she asked, squinting at me as if she could see inside me and calculate my age, like counting the rings on a tree stump.

"Eighteen," I answered.

She thought a minute more, and her lips moved as if she were speaking to herself. "Your parents were probably Illuminated right before your conception, so you got a full dose--Ow!"

Mr. Jenkins had elbowed her in the ribs. "I do not think that sort of talk is entirely appropriate," he muttered.

"I was only thinking aloud," she argued.

"Yes, that seems to be your problem."

Miss Means elbowed him back; he shoved her shoulder so she nearly fell over, but she reached up to pinch his ear between two fingers, then twisted. Mr. Jenkins' face contorted with pain. "Mercy, mercy," he whispered, holding his hands up in supplication. She gave one more tweak, then let him go.

I watched all this, aghast, having never seen or heard of a young man and a young woman acting thusly. My shock and wonder must have shown on my face, for Mr. Jenkins explained.

"Cousins," he told me. "Supposedly estranged. My father was furious when he found out we were going to the same school, but he was too stubborn to pull me out."

"I'm from the disgraced side of the family," Miss Means said cheerily. "My mother married a man who didn't lord his money over everyone else and think himself the better for it. He refused to buy her--and my siblings and I--the latest fashions, and take us to the fanciest parties. Terrible, terrible."

"Terrible," Mr. Jenkins agreed. "My mother was almost disgraced for taking up with those awful Libertists," he smirked, "but then her sweetheart was killed in one of the ambushes--this was right after they came down from the mountain, mind you, and awful bad luck--and she was hurriedly married to my father, too grief-stricken and prospect-less to argue. Seven months later, I was born." He winked at me, and I am sure I turned bright scarlet, though for the wink or the insinuation, I am not sure. How could these people speak so bluntly? I had never heard anything like it.

"You just chided me for talking of conception," Miss Means said, prodding him in the ribs once more.

"Well, it is different when I do it." Mr. Jenkins adjusted his shirt collar (which was still very nicely starched, if rather grungy from a week's wear in the mountains) and stood up. "I figure they're about done by now," he said, and sure enough, as soon as he was standing there came the sound of talking and stretching and walking about from the main room. "I'm good," he grinned, and reached down to help up Miss Means.

Zebediah stood and helped me up as I asked, "What now? More lessons?"

"Bed," Miss Means told me. "We've all worked hard today. You may not think you are tired now, but trust me. The moment your head touches your... er, coat, you'll be out like a light." As if to punctuate her words, she leaned over to blow out both candles, and the four of us made our way back into the main cavern mostly by feel and the splinter of light coming in through the narrow doorway.

Surrounded by People and Strangely Alone

2009-01-02T01:26:00.001-07:00

The entryway to this cave is quite interesting. (I am starting at the beginning again! Hurrah!) By the light of only the moon and stars, Zebediah helped me over a particularly rough patch of large rocks last night, and suddenly we were there. Just to the right of a very large boulder were two spindly, bare trees, two flat rocks stacked between them, as Professor Eberhart had told us. The trees appeared to sit right against the face of the mountain, but if one looked closely one could discern a slender crevasse in the stone. Zebediah went first, holding my hand and sliding his body between the bare branches and the rock, taking slow, careful steps. I heard a sound like "Psst!" from within the cave's entrance, but simply hurried on my way, as Zebediah could not call out that we were friends and not foes.

"Hello?" I asked softly. Then again, a bit louder, "Hello? Professor Eberhart sent us. I am Bernice Sophronia Philomena Greenwater, and Zebediah Miller is with me."

I heard scuffing footsteps, then a lamp was held up practically in my face. I winced and squinted my eyes nearly shut, huddling close to Zebediah, who had put his arm around me. "What's the password?" a gruff female voice asked.

My heart thudded within my chest. Password? "He gave us none," I said, beginning to panic, wondering how we would ever get in if we did not know the password.

There was a pause. "Do you know who's in here?" the voice asked. Feet shuffled, and I began to make out a shape. The girl had her hair pulled back in a tight braid, and was rather short and stout.

"I... St-students," I stammered. "From the academy. Eastern Madison Academy. Um... the professor told me... to listen to what, um, Lucas Jenkins and... and Ivy Means said. Are they here? Might they allow us entry?"

Another pause. I heard whispering, and made out another shape, this one of a small, girlish figure and large, bright eyes. "Wait," the first voice told us, and the other girl scurried off down what seemed to be a tunnel.

Zebediah, I saw, had his hand in his pocket; no doubt his hand was closed around the handle of a knife or gun. I hated to think what could happen if we were attacked, or even if it seemed like we could be in danger, as I knew he would not hesitate to protect me. Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened.

A few minutes later, a young man appeared next to the first girl. He leaned forward, peering at Zebediah's face, then at mine. I recognized him as Lucas Jenkins, with whom the professor had left that night our lesson was interrupted. "We weren't expecting anyone," he muttered, but then his expression changed to one of surprise. "Oy, I know you! You're that girl the professor called his niece, the one he said I shouldn't menti--oh. Err, come on in, you two, sorry for the fuss. Can't be too careful. Thanks, Gertrude." They both turned and started down the passage. After a second, Zebediah started forward as well, taking me with him. It soon became too narrow for us to walk abreast with his arm around my shoulders, so he went first and held his hand out behind so I could hold onto it, both for comfort and balance, as the floor sloped down in the middle, like a channel had at one point been dug out of the rock.

A few moments later, we emerged into a cavern at least as large as the dining hall at the academy. I could only tell by... well, by feel, I suppose. A sixth sense, perhaps, of spatial awareness. Seeing it today, with a sliver of sunlight making it down the "corridor" to illuminate the cave, as well as the light of a couple of fires and a couple of lamps, I knew my estimation to be correct. "I'll bet you're tired," Mr. Jenkins said as he turned to face us. The girl he'd called Gertrude was already walking back toward the entrance with the slender girl, taking the lamp with her and leaving us in almost total darkness. "Whoops, sorry." Mr. Jenkins said, and a moment later there was a little blue flame hovering over his cupped palm, giving just enough light so we could all see each other's faces. "That's better."

"How do you..." I stopped myself before I could finish my question, however. He was Gifted, of course. Everyone in this cavern was, and so was I. "Can I do that?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"I dunno, can you?" he grinned. "Someday soon, I'm sure." His eyes flicked to Zebediah, then our clasped hands. "Your... brother?" he asked me.

"No," I replied simply, not wanting to explain everything at the moment. "He cannot speak, though we have a way of communicating. Please, Mr. Jenkins, I'm very sorry to cut off proper introductions, but we have been walking half the night, and we're very cold, so if--"

"Of course, of course," he said eagerly, nodding his head. "Sorry, I'm such a dolt. Girls this way, boys that way." He pointed to his right, then his left, with his free hand. I couldn't see anything but inky blackness, but I assumed he meant that each sex slept on their own side of the cavern. "Ladies first," said Mr. Jenkins, and walked us to his right.

There was a curtain of some thick material hung across a crude doorway at the end of another short corridor; it seemed boys and girls had their own rooms. "Be quick, this helps keep the body heat in," Mr. Jenkins whispered, referring to the curtain. Having no chance to bid Zebediah a private goodnight, I simply squeezed his hand, then slipped inside, letting the curtain fall back into place behind me.

I could see nothing, even after I stood there for a moment to let my eyes adjust. After talking myself into for a few minutes, I cupped my palm, then tried to call forth fire, as Mr. Jenkins had done. A flame flashed into being, but it was right atop my palm, and it burned my skin! My concentration broken, it disappeared as quickly as it had come, and I was left to clutch my injured hand to my chest and bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

The curtain was still just behind me; once I had recovered from the burn somewhat, I reached out to feel it, then stretched my hand out further to feel the rough stone wall. Inch by inch, I crept along the edge of the "room," sliding my feet lest I encounter any obstruction. Soon enough, I felt something soft with the toe of my boot; a sleeping girl, I supposed. How would I get around? Better to go across, I thought, than risk losing track of the wall. I steeled myself, then raised my right leg and stretched forward...

...only to plant my foot firmly on top of someone's arm. She gasped and raised her head, knocking into my leg, which caused me to lose my balance and fall on top of her. I was mortified! "Sorry, sorry," I whispered, trying to get to my feet.

A golden light appeared then, and I saw it was cupped in the girl's hand. "Be still," She said softly, studying my face. "You're new."

"Yes. I'm Bernice Greenwater. Um. Mr. Jenkins let us in?"

"Lucas." She rolled her eyes. "He didn't think to give you a light? Typical." She sighed and sat up, then extended her free hand to help me sit up as well. Somewhere behind me a girl stirred and murmured in her sleep, but otherwise all was quiet. "I'm Ivy," the girl with the light said, and extended her left hand, as the flame sat in the right.

Put off for a moment by facing the wrong hand, I held out my left and shook hers. "Miss Means?" I asked, for clarification.

"If you must," she said with a shrug. "I don't suppose you can do this?" she asked, gesturing to the flame in her hand.

"Sorry, no." I felt terribly inadequate. Likely all the students here were far more practiced with their Gift than I was, and I would be of no use at all to them.

"We'll soon fix that," Miss Means said cheerily. "Come on, let's find you a bed." I saw as she kicked off the blankets that she was lying on a thin pallet; I supposed it was better than the ground. She seemed to be fully-dressed, sans shoes, but there probably was not time to get a nightgown from her dormitory, fleeing in such haste as they had done. Miss Means picked up a tiny lamp from the other side of her bed and shook it, then handed it to me. The little spheres inside began to glow, and I stood up, then followed her down the wall to the end of it, where a pile of pallets similar to hers sat, as well as some blankets. "No pillows, sorry," she said as she dragged a mattress off the top of the stack.

"That's all right," I whispered back. "I'm used to using my coat." She gave me an odd look, but said nothing more until my makeshift bed was ready.

"Let me know if you need anything. The WC, such as it is, is back into the main cavern," she pointed toward the curtain, "and straight ahead from where the entrance is. It's got a curtain, too, but I'd, um... knock first, just in case."

I nodded, then sat down to begin unlacing my boots. "Will anyone mind if I keep this on for a while?" I asked, pointing at the lamp.

"Should be fine," she replied. "See you in the morning." She picked her way back between sleeping girls, then extinguished the flame in her hand. I wrote the previous entry here, then fell asleep myself.

This morning I awoke to the familiar but nearly-forgotten sound of many other girls waking up: stretching, yawning, unplaiting hair, searching for shoes and such. It brought a reminiscent smile to my lips for a moment as I thought about Saint Anne's, but then I recalled my actual situation, and sat up. I took my time putting on my boots and pinning my hair up (without a mirror, though I'd grown used to it during my stint in the forest) so I would be the last one to leave the room. Many of the girls watched me from the corner of their eyes, but said nothing. Miss Means seemed content to let me be, and they apparently took their cues from her.

When I emerged into the main cavern, students were splitting up into small groups of three or four. A couple were already practicing Illumination. One group worked together to stack a pile of sticks into a crude miniature house. Another had a box of dirt between them, and were taking turns shaping the earth into little animals or other figures.

"Miss Greenwater," said a voice at my side. I turned to see the brilliant blue eyes of Mr. Jenkins smiling at me. "You're with these three," he said, placing his fingertips very lightly on the small of my back to guide me toward a group at the edge of the cavern. "Since you seemed so fascinated with it last night." He winked at me, then hurried away, toward some other group which he began to help as they coiled and uncoiled a rope around a rather nervous-looking boy.

"Hello." The quiet greeting drew my attention back to my own group. The slender, large-eyed girl I had seen at the entrance last night was speaking to me.

"Hello. I... I'm not quite sure what I am supposed to do." I scanned the room for Zebediah, wondering what he was doing, but did not see him.

"Lessons," she said. "I'm Tulia Laurel."

"Bernice Greenwater," I replied, still somewhat distracted.

"I know. I met you last night. Sort of."

"Oh, yes. Right."

"Miss Greenwater." A tall, sturdy-looking boy with violently red hair called my name and, unsurprisingly, got my attention. "If you please." He cupped his hand, and in it appeared a little flame. It was harder to see with all the other light in the cavern, but it was there, hovering an inch over his palm. "Miss Laurel," he prompted.

She held out her hand and concentrated. A weak light flickered in her palm, then disappeared. This happened twice more before she sighed and dropped her arm to her side. "You'll get it," the boy said, then nodded to the other young man in our group, one with very short black hair and square spectacles.

We went around the circle practicing for a little over an hour. Though at the end of that time, I still could produce nothing more than a faint yellow-orange flicker of flame (and even that was warm enough and close enough to my skin to nearly burn me again), I did learn the names of my group-mates. The redhead is James Mason, the other boy is Edwin Standish.

At breakfast, which consisted of a mug of black coffee (the taste of which I dislike, but the warmth I welcomed) and a hard roll with a single slice of apple, I saw Zebediah. He told me, after drawing me to the edge of the room where we would be somewhat less easily observed, that he had spent the day so far carrying water from the spring at the back of the maze of caverns. Apparently a "kitchen" sits further back from the main cave, and beyond that, through a twisting tunnel, is a dark cave from which water springs up and drains away in another direction. It used to drain out the entrance we came in, but had been stopped up and made to go another way in order to clear this space for use.

We drew many strange looks because of the way we communicated, but no one approached us. I think they did not trust us, as newcomers, but had to endure us because of what Mr. Jenkins and Miss Means said.

The rest of the morning was spent in more lessons, each group rotating through the stations set up throughout the cavern. In addition to Mr. Jenkins and Miss Means, a couple of the older students circled the room, helping groups or individuals now and then and overseeing the whole thing. I was quite successful with the rope (though it horrified me, to a degree, to be wrapping it around little Miss Laurel), though I did less well working with the others to build the stick house. Both Mr. Mason and Miss Means told me I was trying to do too much of the work myself, but I could not stop wanting to do it all. That is how I was accustomed to doing things with my Gift! I did not see why we had to work as a team for this exercise, but did not ask questions.

Lunch was slightly more substantial than breakfast in that a bit of cheese and a hunk of tough, dried meat (leather, more like) was added to the roll, sliver of apple, and cup of coffee. And then more lessons.

We are on a break now. I am sitting with Zebediah in the part of the cavern that is most like an actual corner. He is watching me write while keeping an eye on the games, conversation, and laughter going on in the rest of the cavern. I know I should not keep to myself so much, but I am frightened, Dear Reader. This seems so odd to me, students governed by other students, and none of us doing real lessons but practicing Illumination instead. I feel that something terrible could happen at any moment, whether someone blows us up from overexertion of their Gift, someone finds us all here in this cave, or Mr. Jenkins and Miss Means think the better of it, decide we are useless, and kick us out into the snow and cold.

Zebediah has put his arm around me and I feel better. Yes, I know that you are reading this, you sneak. (He is laughing now, in his quiet way.) I suppose it will be supper time soon, and then perhaps more lessons. Hopefully someone can explain to Zebediah and me what we are all doing here, and how there came to be so many Gifted young people all in one place, but I am too nervous to approach anyone. And there is the bell which Miss Means uses to demarcate the various portions of the day. Goodbye until later, Dear Reader.

Back Again and Gone Again

2008-12-29T13:11:00.001-07:00

(Look, Dear Reader! I am beginning at the beginning!)

We arrived at the academy quite late last night. The driver helped carry our things to the building, then left us at the front door. We knocked only once before being let in by a very sleepy-looking little chambermaid, making me think she had been quite near the door to answer so quickly. When we told her our names she woke up in a hurry. "Stay right there," she stammered. "Don't move." She scurried off, leaving us in the chilly front entrance. After a moment, we put our bags down.

"Do you suppose she has gone to fetch Mrs. Dogwood?" I asked Zebediah in a whisper, wondering why the housekeeper herself had to be brought down to show us to rooms with which we were already familiar. He only shrugged and took my hand, for which I was glad.

We heard footsteps a minute or two later, but the person who appeared in the doorway was not the chambermaid, nor the housekeeper, Mrs. Dogwood; it was Professor Eberhart. "Follow me," he whispered. "Don't make a sound." He turned back around without waiting for an answer. Bewildered, Zebediah and I had no choice but to pick up our bags and comply.

He led us past our former rooms and all the way up to his office. Once we were both inside, he shut and locked the door, then gestured for us to sit. Rather than shake a lamp to light it, he lit a single candle and placed it on his desk, giving the room an air of mystery. He sat down behind his desk, wrapped in a green velvet dressing gown with an odd little cap on his head. I suppose it was fashionable, for a man of his stature and age. His expression was still as stern as ever, though, and his mechanical eye whirred quietly as he looked back and forth between Zebediah and I. His gaze stopped for a moment on our clasped hands, which rested on the arm of my chair, but he did not remark upon it.

"You must go as soon as I have told you why," the professor said in his low, Germanian accent. "It is no longer safe here, for either of you." I suppose I must have looked as though I would protest, because he added, "I know you are tired. I know you have experienced much hardship, and you shall tell me all, in time. I, too, shall fill in the blanks with which I shall leave you tonight."

He studied us a moment more, then his expression changed. "Ach. Forgive me, you must be hungry and thirsty after your journey. You came all the way from Johnstown this morning, yes?" I nodded, wondering how he knew, or if he had only guessed. "Forgive me," he said again, and went to the rope on the wall to, presumably, ring for tea.

"And now," he said, returning to his chair behind the desk. "Mr. Troxill wired me the night before last to say you were coming." That would explain the speedy answering of the door. "I knew you would only have to flee again once you arrived, but thought it better I tell you so in person. Let you see a familiar face before becoming fugitives once more, yes?" He nodded, answering his own question. "He told me a little of what had transpired whilst you were at his home, and once you left it and returned." He gave us a calculating stare. "Very interesting. But more on that at a later time.

"I must presume that the reason you never returned to the academy after going into Madison that day is because you saw the Erebos." I nodded. "It is a wonder they did not catch you in town. Captain Belleclaire sent several men into the city to search you out, yet somehow you evaded them. I knew you intended to purchase clothing, so I told them you were in search of paper products and food, so that they would begin their hunt at the wrong end of town. I believe that may have helped you."

"We didn't see anyone while we were there," I told him. "Not that I noticed, anyway." I looked at Zebediah, but he just shook his head, still looking a little bewildered.

"Good, good," the professor murmured. "To continue: once they had thoroughly searched the school for you and caused quite an uproar, the dirigible left along with its crew. They sent a couple of men into the forest to search for you, thinking it most likely you fled there, rather than across the fields or back into the city. It appears they were unsuccessful, however, as you are both still here."

"They... were unsuccessful in capturing us, sir," I said slowly, "but... we did come across one of them."

"Oh?" the professor asked, and leaned toward us.

"Yes, sir." I felt Zebediah's fingers tighten around mine, giving me strength to go on as well as drawing comfort from me for himself. "Mr. Miller... took care of him."

"You mean he killed the man?" His voice sounded neither accusatory nor triumphant; he simply seemed curious.

"Yes, sir," I said in a very small voice. I hoped that he would not ask for any more details, and thankfully he did not.

After a pause, he said, "I am glad you are both alive and well," and left it at that.

The young maid appeared again with a tray in her hands, a pot of still-steeping tea and three cups upon it, as well as a couple of cold sandwiches and some slices of apple. She was a very efficient, productive little thing, I thought, to bring this so quickly. She left the tray on the desk and disappeared silently, and Professor Eberhart continued with his tale while Zebediah and I ate and drank.

The Erebos had only been gone for a day before another airship approached the school. This one did not even take the time to land, only let down a handful of men from ropes dropped over the side. They slid down and entered the school during lunch time, trapping everyone in the dining hall, and sent out a couple of the men to bring anyone who was elsewhere into the dining hall as well. They said they were searching for any children who were Illuminated, which was, of course, met with both shock and disbelief. There had been no one truly Gifted at the academy, or anywhere else, for more than two centuries! Or so everyone believed. Still, the men were insistent. They had some sort of device with which they tested all the students, who submitted to it tranquilly under the orders of the professors.

To everyone's great surprise, there really was a group of Illuminated students at the school, though I had known about it since that night one of them interrupted my lesson with Professor Eberhart. Once the men had all of them separated from the rest, they intended to subdue them and take them aboard the airship which was still hovering nearby. However, before that could happen, Professor Eberhart gave a signal, and the Gifted students lashed out with all the force they could muster, knocking the unsuspecting men unconscious. There was, understandably, a great commotion, students and teachers alike running about and shouting, confused, frightened, in shock. But the professor said they had been prepared for this for some time. All of the Illuminated students gathered a few things from their rooms and fled in the confusion. A cave high up in the mountains had been set aside for just such a time as this, and it was to this place they all went. A few of the especially talented ones were able to create an illusion so the crew of the airship above would not be able to see them as they hurried into the forest.

"And that is where you must go now," the professor said to me. "I have a plan which will enable me to join you all there after the Yule holiday, but until then, you are to follow all orders from Lucas Jenkins and Ivy Means, do you understand?"

I nodded, and recalled that Lucas was the boy who had interrupted one of my lessons, what seemed like ages ago. And if I remembered correctly, he had said something about a girl named Ivy. "What are we to do there?" I asked.

"They will tell you the rest of the story, I am sure, and answer any of your considerable amount of questions which they are able," he said with a slight smirk. I felt he was mocking me, but I knew how curious I could be, and how insistent with my questions, so I did not mind.

I finished my tea, then said, "I suppose you should tell us how to get there, then."

"Us? Miss Gardener, you must go alone."

The shock of hearing my true name after hardly thinking about it for several weeks delayed my answer by a second or two. "Alone? No, sir, that I cannot do." I took Zebediah's hand again, firmly set on the idea that he would accompany me.

"He is not Gifted, Miss Gardener. He will be of no help to the group in the mountains, and, forgive my bluntness, but I believe he will be a distraction to you as well."

To that, I did take offense. "He saved my life in the forest, killing the man that had been sent after us," I said with a frown. "He will not be of no use. He is... the most useful person I know!" The professor opened his mouth to protest, but I went on. "We are promised!" I declared. "To... to each other." It was unnecessary to add that last part, but it made me feel a little better, making it so clear. And it was the first time I had said it aloud. I gave Zebediah a small smile, which he returned, and my heart felt a little lighter.

Zebediah squeezed my hand once more, then gestured to the professor, asking for paper and a pen. It was procured and handed to him, and Zebediah scribbled hurriedly: YOU CANNOT KEEP ME FROM HER. I GO WHERE SHE GOES. BESIDES, I ALREADY KNOW ALL THE SECRETS: ABOUT HER ILLUMINATION, AND THAT OF THE OTHER CHILDREN. I HAVE SKILLS THEY DO NOT. I CAN HELP AND PROTECT THEM ALL.

Professor Eberhart sighed, his mechanical eye scanning the paper once more. Then he looked up and nodded. "So be it," he said. "But take care, Mr. Miller." Zebediah nodded solemnly, and it seemed that was enough for the professor.

He sketched us a map, telling us of landmarks which would help us along the way: large stones, oddly-shaped trees and the like. The trek through the forest would be relatively easy, as it followed a path for most of the way, but we would certainly slow down as we climbed the base of the mountain. The cave was partially hidden by shrubbery and rocks, but he told us what to look for in order to find it. Then he bid us farewell, and we went on our way, back into the dark and the cold, crunching over days-old snow until we reached the forest.

The journey was uneventful but for one time we got a little turned around. Zebediah soon set us straight, however, and we made it here a couple of hours before dawn. I shall describe the place and the people tomorrow. For now, I am too exhausted and excited at once to continue in any coherent manner.

AUTHOR POST: Ugh, too busy

2008-12-29T01:38:00.002-07:00

See the Twitter feed in the sidebar there? If I have something small to tell you about, I will put it there instead of making a full Author Post.

Right now, it's saying that my day was too full and busy, and I am too tired to finish the entry for Sunday, so it will go up before noon on Monday. Sorry! :( I hate doing this, but I'd rather be a little late and give you something good to read than force it and post utter tripe.

To recap:

*Check the new Twitter feed for any news and updates from here on out (though bigger/major things will still have their own blog post).

*Read Sunday's post by noon on Monday.

Faith Betrayed and Peace Found

2008-12-27T22:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader, I am at once in raptures and sick to my stomach! Perhaps I am sick to my stomach in part because of how happy I feel, if that makes any sort of sense. Perhaps I still feel guilty for my happiness, though I am trying not to. But I have come to accept--

Oh, bother! Here I am, starting in the middle or, worse yet, at the end, again. Let me try once more.

Zebediah and I arrived at the inn last night still without having spoken a word to one another. Mr. Troxill had arranged for separate rooms, of course. (Our driver slept with the other drivers, I believe. I am not sure how these things work because I have never had someone "beneath" me and serving me, but the man seemed to know where to go perfectly well, and reappeared as soon as we were ready to leave this morning. I am glad someone knows what they are doing in this!) Once Zebediah and I had put our few belongings in our room, we went down for a late supper. The dinning hall was mostly empty, as everyone else was either in the adjoining parlour, or already in bed. The near-silence made it very obvious that we weren't speaking.

I could hardly eat, and I had not eaten much all day because of how awful I felt. I didn't want Zebediah to go, not really, but it was only right and proper! And though I knew he understood that, too, he refused to let me be. All day I had been thinking about how I could dissuade him, but was too nervous to speak of it lest he do something else to try and convince me, as he had in his room at Mr. Troxill's.

After pretending to eat for perhaps ten minutes (which felt like ten hours), I pushed my plate away and began to move my chair back, but Zebediah reached across the small table and touched my hand. I jerked it away as if burned, but I did look up at him. "Bernice," he said with no sound.

I shook my head and stood up. "Goodnight," I whispered, and fled to my room, telling myself it would be better tomorrow, once we had reached the academy and I had a definitive plan. I read what I had written in the coach, reliving it again. I saw the hurt in his eyes as I told him he must stay behind, and held my hand out before me, remembering the touch of his lips on my palm. I went to bed soon after that, and thankfully gave into the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

When I opened my door in the morning to go down to breakfast, Zebediah was waiting for me in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed. As soon as he saw me, he stood up straight, then nodded toward the room behind me, asking if he might come in. "We... we should eat and prepare to leave," I stammered, but he was already walking toward me and I had no choice but to back up and let him in. He shut the door behind him, and while I did not particularly like that, we were in a public space and if we were to argue again, I did not fancy the entire rest of our floor hearing it.

"Do you love me?" he asked with hand gestures as soon as he door was closed.

His question caught me off-guard, to say the least. "Excuse me?" I asked, stalling for time to think. How could I answer that truthfully while still convincing him to leave me alone?

"Do you? Tell me! Say it!" If he had been able to speak, he would have been nearly shouting, I am sure.

"Zebediah, I... I cannot really..." I was cut off by my own shock when he stepped forward and took my hands, then took another step toward me so I had to stumble back in order for him not to run into me. Looking up into his eyes, I fell silent for a moment. He stared intently back at me, and I knew it was time to say what I have been feeling for days.

"I do not... I do not know, for sure, that I love you," I whispered, very aware of the pressure from his fingers, of every slight movement of his thumbs on my knuckles. "You are really the only man I have ever... ever known, ever been close to. What I feel is likely... infatuation. How should I know what love is? I, who had never even left my little town until a month and a half ago, who had never known anything but teachers and other girls all my life. I... I cannot know for sure if I love you because... you are the only man I have known since becoming a young woman. I think that, if I love you, it is only because... you have been here. I think... another man in the same situation would provoke the same feelings from me."

"You love me out of necessity?" he asked, using gestures and spelling.

"I think so," I whispered, and something made me feel as if I had heard those words before.

"Adelaide loved Arthur of necessity," he told me. I let go of his hands, gasping, and stepped back.

"You have read my diary!" I cried, for I knew I had not told him about Adelaide's feelings for her father's assistant on the train.

"You told her to love him regardless," Zebediah went on as if I had not just accused him of theft and betrayal, pulling my hand toward him when I at first refused to give it him to spell on. "Perhaps it is not necessity but fate."

I yanked my hand away and glared at him, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. "I cannot believe you would betray me like this," I whispered. He said nothing, but took my little diary from his pocket. My eyes flicked to the desk where I had left it last night; he had come in while I slept and taken it to read.

As I would not give him my hand now, he held the diary toward me and spelled on its cover. "I am sorry. I had to know. I cannot let you leave me. I love you." Almost reverently, he placed the book back on the desk, then turned toward me again. "I will marry you," he told me, touching the ring finger on his left hand for this new word which we had never spoken of together. "I'll go with you. Anywhere."

I let out a strange sound, half-sob, half-laugh. A marriage proposal before breakfast, I thought, a little hysterical. I felt a bit faint and reached out for the bed post to steady myself. "Marry me?" I echoed. He nodded, nothing but earnestness and longing in his eyes. "Why?"

A sad smile crossed his face, and he looked both confused that I would ask such a thing, and amused that I had. "I need you." He came nearer now, to spell on my palm when he had to. "I need... a normal life. Family. You do not see me as a murderer, an evil man. Nor as a mercenary, nor as a servant. You see me as... just a man."

Strangely, I thought then of dear Maggie, and our talk on my last morning at Saint Anne's. She was convinced I would find myself a handsome husband soon after I left her, and I promised that I would return for her if I did, to keep her with me always. And here was that dream, beginning to come true. I could hardly believe I was allowing myself to consider it, but this is what I had longed for since I was young. Having no relatives, I wanted a family of my own. I just did not think the opportunity for one would come so soon!

"I cannot... This is..." I felt even more light-headed, and quickly rounded the end of the bed to sink down onto the edge of it, trying to catch my breath.

Zebediah knelt before me and took my hands in his. It was just like a scene in a love story! "You do not have to answer now," he spelled on my palm, merely wanting to touch me, since he could have used gestures to communicate. "Know that I love you, and will not leave you." He bent his head to kiss the back of my hand, then stood. Looking at me for a moment as if to memorize my face, he gave me a small, secretive smile, then left me.

Instead of going down to breakfast, I recorded all that happened here, too fluttery with nerves and (yes, I dare to write it now!) love to see him so soon. I am still a little angry with him for reading my diary, though now I think of it, I would probably have told him all of it eventually. Now I must pack quickly so we may leave.

I am loved, Dear Reader! Not only that, but I return that love in equal part, and I know now that I shall always have a friend at my side, no matter what. Why have I denied it all this time? It is more wonderful than anything I have ever known!

_____

Zebediah is asleep in the corner of the coach, and it is lovely to watch him. He is leaning his head against the curtain which we have pulled across the window, and his mouth is open just slightly. His breaths are long and slow, and when I extracted my hand gently from his in order to write this, he stirred slightly as if he knew I was getting further away from him, and did not like it. We are nearly to the academy now, and have sat on the same seat holding hands nearly all the way. It was lovely, lovely, lovely.

I must write Maggie as soon as I am able.

A Question Finally Answered and A Very Silent Coach Ride

2008-12-24T00:25:00.000-07:00

Well, that did not go at all to plan. I am writing this in the coach, and we are bumping along terribly, as the road is pitted with holes full of half-melted snow, and covered in pebbles and grit brought onto it with runoff. My handwriting is atrocious, but I must do something else I go mad, alone in here with Mr. Miller.

Yes, Dear Reader, my plan failed. And it was because of my own stupidity and weakness that it failed. I shall tell you how it happened.

As I had intended, I waited until breakfast was finished and Zebediah and I returned to our rooms to gather what little we had with us in order to meet the coach downstairs and begin the journey back to Madison. Instead of packing my own things, however, I waited a minute, then went next door and knocked on Zebediah's door. He answered it shortly and invited me in, though he left the door open.

I closed it. That, I think, was my first mistake. "I must speak with you," I said, and his expression became very grave. I suppose it was obvious from my face that my stomach was churning with nerves, and he could probably tell by the way I fidgeted that something was very wrong. "Might we sit down?" I asked. Another mistake, for whenever someone says you "must talk" and then invites you to sit, good news almost never follows.

He motioned to the pair of simple, serviceable armchairs near the barren fireplace; as he was supposedly leaving in half an hour, there was no point in keeping the fire burning. I sat in one chair, and he took the other once I was settled and looked at me with an expectant, slightly worried expression.

I had thought and thought of what to say, but seeing him before me, every word flew right out of my head. "I... I do not think you should go back to Madison with me," I blurted.

His surprised showed on his face, and he leaned forward, eager for me to continue, though he looked as though he would argue if he could.

"It isn't... I mean, you don't..." Goodness, I didn't know how to go on! "You've done so much for me already, and I know I can never repay you for... for saving my life and protecting me and..." I clamped my teeth together to stop the words, at least for a moment so I could gather my thoughts. It was easier if I didn't look at him, so my gaze fell instead upon the black ash that had previously been dry wood burning bright with heat and light. "What I mean to say is... is that... you needn't follow after me any longer. You... I mean, you never should've got mixed up with me in the first place. I'm on this quest to find my family, and I must learn all I can about Illumination in order to help... the cause, or the country, or whatever, and you're... you're not tied to me, nor I to you." My fingers tangled together, weaving up then down, then down and up. I couldn't stay still. "We're--we have been good friends, and I am very glad of it, and will have... f-fond memories of our time together." At this point, it became a little difficult to speak, and my vision blurred with a slight sheen of tears. "But we're... we're just not... r-right together, I mean, we shouldn't b-be together, and... Not that I th-think we're together, but we've been... close. Too close. For propriety's sake. Some of that was... was circumstances, couldn't be helped, but I... we..." I looked up at him, not thinking, and the tragedy I saw stole the breath from my lungs.

He looked as though I had taken his most treasured possession and dashed it on the ground. As though he had held out his hand to shake and I had burned it with a hot iron. As if... I had broken his heart. And seeing that look in his eyes broke mine as well.

"Oh, don't!" I cried. "Please, don't! This is for the best, you must see that! We can't go on... adventuring like this, traveling around together, alone! Not alone," I corrected, "but... together." Surely he had to understand how it must look.

For what seemed like a very long time, Zebediah sat and said nothing, looking at the floor. But then he nodded slowly, and sat up a little straighter.

I stood up, taking that as his agreement that he would stay behind, whether or not he meant it that way. "I thank you, then, for all you have done for me," I said, my hands clenched in fists at my sides. I nearly choked on the next words, but eventually I got them out. "Goodbye, Zebediah."

I hadn't taken two steps before he was on his feet, blocking my way. "You can't go alone," he said with hand gestures. "Dangerous," he spelled on my palm.

"I am going back to the academy, to Professor Eberhart," I told him. "It's safe there."

"It wasn't last time," he told me.

"Then I shall go somewhere else! The Professor will know what to do, and if he doesn't, then... I'll figure it out!" I said stubbornly. "I got this far on..." But I trailed off. I hadn't done any of it on my own. From the minute I stepped off the train in Sun City, decisions had been made for me; other people had either forced or helped me along.

"I won't leave you," said Zebediah.

"You're staying here," I insisted. "I'm the one that's leaving." I started toward the door again, but he moved quickly to block my way again. "Move!" I shouted, shaking by now from nerves and a sick feeling deep in my stomach.

He took my hand again and I yanked it back, but he grabbed my wrist with one hand, prying my fingers open with the other. Furious, but unable to pull free, I moved as far away from him as I could with his fingers wrapped around my wrist, and looked away. I didn't have to watch his fingertip as he spelled letters out on my hand. I understood as plainly as if he had spoken aloud.

"I love you."

Tears stinging my eyes, I still did not look at him, too angry and upset to risk it. But from my peripheral vision I saw him bend over my hand, then I felt his lips touch my fingertips. Then my palm, snowflake-soft. "Zebediah," I whispered, my voice shaking. The door was closed, and I was alone with a man in his bedroom. This is how so many "dreadful" copper novels begin, with the quiet, gentle seduction of a naive young girl. It was highly inappropriate. But I couldn't make myself pull my hand away even after he loosened his grip on my wrist.

When a tear spilled down my cheek, he let me go at last. I did not even dare to look at him, but hurried to the door, threw it open, and nearly ran down the corridor to my own room. I cried as I packed my things, and found him waiting at the front door when I returned downstairs, just as I had expected and feared.

Mr. Troxill had packed enough food for four people in the coach, and the driver stowed our meager belongings in a little enclosed space above the seating area. Our host came to the door shortly after I arrived there to bid us farewell. "Thank you again," he said as he shook our hands. He could not explain the reason for his gratitude in front of the coachman, but I knew he referred still to the way we returned his wife to him.

"Do not mention it," I murmured. Surely he must have noticed my reddened eyes and blotchy face, but he did not say anything about it. Zebediah stood stiffly and was very careful not to look at me even from the corner of his eye. Our host must have known something was the matter, and my cheeks burned with shame, as if he had seen my weakness in Zebediah's room.

A minute later Zebediah and I were both inside the coach, but just as Mr. Troxill turned to go back into his house, I called out to him, remembering that I had wanted to ask him something at the last second. He came up to the window, which I managed to lower after fiddling with the crank for a moment. But when I opened my mouth, I realized how stupid my question was. "I... I apologise, it was nothing," I mumbled.

"Are you sure, my dear? You may ask me anything you please, though I cannot promise I shall answer it." The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips.

"I..." How could I ask something about his dead wife so soon after her passing? But again I remembered his cruelty and selfishness, which was ultimately the cause of her (second) death. And I remembered that he would've sold us to men who could have killed us or worse! So I asked it. "Why... if I may ask... did Violet stutter? Was it... a natural affliction, or something brought about by her... unique situation?"

He looked very puzzled for a moment, but he had agreed to answer anything he could. "It was a side effect of using clockwork parts," he told me after moving closer so the driver could not hear. "In my presence, when I concentrated the Illumination on her, she was better, but away from me, away from the crystal, the parts... skipped, I suppose is the best way to put it."

Hearing him mention the crystal reminded me of another thing I had been wondering about. "Why did you not imbue your wife with the Gift, if you had the ability?" I asked.

His expression grew very sad at that, and I almost felt sorry for asking it. "I tried," he said softly. "But it did not work. I think... I think that it was because... she was no longer fully human, after her return."

I had not thought of it like that, and his answer banished any further interrogations from my mind. "Farewell, sir," I said softly, and he nodded. After checking behind on both sides, the driver whistled to the horses, and we lurched forward. I cranked the window back up and watched Mr. Troxill disappear behind people and cabriolets and street lamps as a light snow began to fall.

Now I am scribbling away in my diary by the light of a lamp, at least an hour from reaching the inn where we are to stay, and doing my best not to touch, look at, or speak to Zebediah. I am not sure if I am angry with him, or disappointed in him, or disappointed in myself for allowing him to accompany me still. But I have not spoken to him since I left his room this morning, nor has he "said" anything to me. My only solace is that tomorrow, we shall be at the academy. Perhaps Professor Eberhart can talk sense into him.

AUTHOR POST: Christmas week

2008-12-22T22:50:00.002-07:00

Ahh, the holidays! My update schedule has been a little crazy the last couple of weeks, and I apologise for that. Today's make-up post just isn't going to happen. I have to think really hard to even hit the right keys while I'm typing this, so another whole entry would just be a disaster, if I attempted it. I woke up feeling yucky this morning, so I slept a little more and went in to work two hours late. To make up for it, I stayed an hour later, then did some last-minute stocking-stuffer shopping, then when I got home, I went out to dinner with friends. Busy busy busy day! (And a little stressful, with all the snow that's been dumped on us. I HATE driving in the snow!)

The make-up post will be coming tomorrow (Tuesday). Since Christmas Day is Thursday, I'll be taking that day and Friday off, then updating Saturday and Sunday; not make-up posts, since it's a holiday. After New Year's Eve, I should be able to update pretty regularly on my Thurs-Sun schedule, barring out-of-town travel or natural disasters. Hang in there another week, and things will get better!

And I just wanted to say again that you are very welcome to use the comments to give me feedback, tell me about typos, discuss characters or plot or world stuff with me or other readers, talk to the characters directly, or whatever you want! (Though preferably keep it relevant to the story or writing in some way.) I would love feedback, and I would love for you, Dear Readers, to get involved in discussions with me and with others!

Come back tomorrow to see how Bernice fares in the next leg of her adventure.

Two Days Spent Quietly and Feelings Realized

2008-12-22T00:34:00.002-07:00

If I counted correctly, I believe it took us seven nights and eight days to get from the academy to where we are currently. We took quite a mad route, however, backtracking a little, and of course trekking through the forest slowed us down rather a lot. Apparently the journey from here to Madison should only take two days and a night by coach and on a proper road.

Let me back up, Dear Reader. I do have such an awful habit of starting things in the middle, don't I? I shall try to do better in the future.

I saw little of Mr. Troxill for the remainder of the day yesterday. Trays were brought to my and Zebediah's rooms for lunch, but we dined together in my room for company. When we saw Mr. Troxill at supper, he looked more exhausted than he had in the morning, but his overall air seemed somewhat improved. I asked him about returning to Madison, and he agreed immediately, saying he would hire a very trusted coach driver to take us there, and arrange for every comfort on our journey, including the inn we were to stay in at the halfway point. It was the least he could do, he said, after the great favour we had done him.

I feel not at all as though we had done him a favour. We snuck out of his house in the middle of the night with his wife, then wandered for a couple of days before bringing her back. You know, now that I think about it, I believe Violet wanted to stay near to her home. I think she knew her health would deteriorate if she was away from Mr. Troxill's Illumination and the power of the Crystal shard, and she knew she would want to return home when at last she could go on no longer. I think that is both very, very wrong, for causing such pain to her husband, and very, very tragic, for the terrible situation in which she was placed against her will.

In addition to his cruelty to Violet, I have to remember that Mr. Troxill was going to turn us over to Belleclaire and, ultimately, Mr. Bergstrom, all for mere money. It does not matter how human and frail he seems when speaking or thinking of his late wife; he is still a greedy, power-hungry man, and only swore to keep us safe when he felt he owed us something. Recalling that, I do not feel bad at all, taking advantage of his hospitality now, and accepting his coach and his money for our journey tomorrow.

After supper last night, I read aloud to Zebediah for a while in the library (sans Mr. Troxill, as he had retired). He closed his eyes soon after I began to read, which I have come to realize is not out of boredom or tiredness, but contentment. When I finish a chapter or a set of poems, he is always able to discuss them with me if he wishes, so I know he has been paying attention. I suppose I should be glad that he feels so comfortable in my presence.

But that is a problem, too. (Goodness, look at me, beginning sentences with conjunctions! Miss P___ would be ashamed!) At times, I think perhaps Mr. Miller and I have become too comfortable with each other. It is not proper for a young man and a young woman to have such a close relationship, or at least, I think it is not. We are not betrothed, nor will we ever be, so there is no excuse. I can tell Mr. Troxill thinks we are odd for behaving as we do, and not just because of the hand gestures and spelling. He looks at us with disapproval and the sort of curiosity which gossip-mongers exude, as if he longs to ask about our interactions, but is too polite to ask. Even before we ran away and then returned, he gave us that look when he thought I could not see him.

I can make all the excuses I want for my closeness with Zebediah--our companionship on the airship, the nights and days spent in the forest with no one else for company, him saving my life that awful night--but the truth is... the truth is... (I hate to even write it) we are all wrong for each other. Ill-matched in almost every way. Yet despite it all... I shall say it here and now (or, I suppose, write it): I am in love with Zebediah Miller. I am not sure how it happened, or exactly when. Perhaps it was the night he slept between my bed and the door, in that cold attic room the kind housewife allotted us. Maybe it was when he held me as I sobbed and sobbed, the night he killed that man in the forest. More likely, it has been so gradual that I have not noticed it. I hope he has not noticed it.

I am afraid I have got off-track from my original intent of recording the events of yesterday and today. But writing all of this, and having so much time to think in the past two days, has made me realize what I must do. Tomorrow morning before we leave, I must convince Zebediah not to accompany me to Madison. It is not his place; I am not his charge or his fiancée, he is not obligated to protect me. I am to return to a friend and a place where I will be safe, so he needn't worry about me. Tomorrow we must part ways, for both our sakes. Mine especially, as romantic entanglement is the last thing I need while I am on the run from pirates and loyalists, and hoping to expand my Gift in order to help save the country.

Yes, I must. I shall tell him tonight. Except that he is probably already asleep. Morning it is, right after breakfast. That way he will have no time to argue with me, as I must leave immediately after. Oh, Dear Reader, wish me luck!

A Love Story and A Captive Freed

2008-12-21T01:29:00.001-07:00

I woke early and pulled on the lovely dressing gown which was still in my room in order to hurry down the corridor and use the water closet, and found Zebediah asleep in front of my door, his dirty coat pulled over him as a blanket, and a pillow filched from his bed beneath his head. He woke the moment I opened the door and looked up at me confused for a moment, then he sat up and looked around a little wildly, perhaps somewhat disoriented. "What are you doing here?" I asked him.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then stood up and gathered his coat and pillow. "Did not trust Troxill," he spelled on my palm.

"Zebediah," I chided. "He gave us his word."

"As he did last time," he spelled.

"I suppose you have a point," I muttered. "Why did you not come inside? I hardly think the same rules of propriety apply to us, after all we have been through, all we are still going through."

"Did not want you to worry."

"Now I am worried in... retrospect," I said with a little smile. "So it did not work." He returned my smile to a lesser degree, though he did seem a little ashamed of himself. "Do you think we should stay?" I asked.

He shrugged, looking a little worried.

"I do want to know all about Violet and Mr. Troxill. I never would have dreamt they were married!"

"Curiosity," he spelled on my hand, "killed the cat."

"Hmm, yes. I suppose it has nearly killed me a time or two."

For this, Zebediah could use hand gestures. "But here you are," he told me.

I began to reply with something or other, but suddenly realized I was standing before him barefoot and in my dressing gown. "Forgive me," I muttered, squeezing past him through the doorway and shutting the door behind myself, then scurrying down the corridor to the WC.

I didn't see him again until we were both seated at the dining table downstairs for breakfast. As usual, I was the last to arrive. Mr. Troxill looked as though he hadn't slept at all, though he had at least combed his hair. Indeed, the knot in his tie looked so sharp and tight it had to be almost painful. His collar was as crisply starched as I had ever seen a collar be. Everything about his appearance, other than his expression, was absolutely perfect. Perhaps the small habits of personal grooming gave him some peace in this difficult time so soon after his beloved wife's death.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation," he began once the food had been set on the table. He moved to pour himself a cup of coffee, but noticed neither Zebediah nor I touched a thing. "It is safe, I swear to you." I looked at Zebediah and he looked back at me, then I glanced at Mr. Troxill, still a little uncertain, though I wanted to believe him. "I swear... on my dear Violet's life and death," he said, looking unutterably tired.

That was enough for me, so I took some toast and some sausage, though when I looked up to reach for the coffee pot, I saw that Zebediah had already taken a few bites of his bacon and toast. As he sipped his black coffee, he subtly held up one finger, meaning I should wait a little bit before eating anything; he was (possibly) sacrificing himself for my sake, should Mr. Troxill be lying. I took my time buttering my toast and adding cream and sugar to my coffee, though once that was done I had become so lost in what Mr. Troxill was telling us that I began to eat without even thinking. No harm did come of it, though, thank goodness.

"I was rather young when I married Violet," Mr. Troxill said to start his story. (I have put it down here in as close an approximation of his wording as possible. One thing I can say about this diary is that it has improved my powers of memory greatly.) "I was only twenty-four, and she eighteen. About a year after our wedding, she was crossing the street while doing her week's shopping, and was trampled to death by the horse pulling a cabriolet. I was a broken man, for I was very much in love with her. We were very happy." He paused a moment, and I realized he had taken only a bite or two of his breakfast, and had not touched his coffee. If my beloved spouse had died--for a second time, apparently--I do not think I could eat, either.

Then he took a deep breath and continued. "I say I was a broken man, but only for a few days. Once the worst of the shock had worn off, I was angry. Furious. How could fate allow such a terrible thing to happen to two young people so much in love? My grandfather and my father had told me stories about how Illumination used to be in the old days, and I had done some reading on it in my youth. So I got it into my head that I would find the Gift for myself, and use it to bring back Violet.

"I searched everywhere. I read everything, talked to everyone who might know even a shred of information about Illumination, or its history, or famous figures who were Gifted. I traveled far from home for months on end. I shall not go into detail of how, nor, I think, do I have the time just now, but I did eventually come upon a sliver of an ancient Sacred Crystal. I had by that point learned much of the theory of Illumination, so it was only a matter of training myself to make use of the new powers with which I was imbued. I did so on my journey back home.

"Violet was... not in the best condition when I returned. I had done all I could to preserve her mortal body, but certain things... needed replacing. I had been counting on this, given the length of time I had been away, and thought the best course of action, before bringing her back, would be to replace her insides, to put it very simply, with mechanical parts. While I built these parts, I used Illumination to keep her body... in stasis, shall we say? For years. I had much to learn, still, before I could rebuild to perfection what Violet needed to survive."

Here he paused and smoothed his mustache and beard, staring at nothing, deep in thought. As I had begun eating some little time ago, I paused as well so as not to make undue noise with my utensils. But then he continued: "She was disoriented, to say the least, when at last she awoke. Copper-novels may have you believe that one must wait for a lightning storm, and throw a great switch, and cackle madly, but I assure you, nothing of the sort happened. One moment she was cold and dead, the next, due to my efforts and determination... she was alive. Looking at me, sitting up." Mr. Troxill seemed to live the scene again, to imagine himself a young man greeting his wife for the first time in years, having brought her back from the dead.

"For a while, all was well. I told her of all I had seen and done since she left me, and while she never seemed... quite the same... she did express her gratitude for her new life. As I said, we had been very much in love, and were overjoyed to be together again.

"But soon enough--too soon--things grew worse and worse. I should have seen it coming, but I was foolish and rash, selfish. Of course Violet could not venture out of the house, for if she did, there would be an uproar! I would have to explain how I brought her back, and if people knew I was Gifted with Illumination, as well as possessed a piece of a Crystal... You can only imagine." It was for the very reasons Professor Eberhart warned me against making my Gift known. It could be used for ill, I could become a target. To actually have a shard of a Crystal endangered Mr. Troxill tenfold! "So she was required to remain indoors," he went on, "away from the windows, locked up. She could not visit her old friends, she could not go shopping, she could not accompany me to dinners and balls. I had given her back a life, yes, but not her old life. It was... but a half-life. And as you, no doubt, realized... she came to resent me for it.

"I did my best to make her life here as comfortable as possible. All manner of private amusements were brought in, and anything she wished for, she had only to ask. But what I think she really missed... what she really desired but could not have... was companionship. She had been quite the social butterfly in her former life, and that had been torn from her. She was never the same after I brought her back. And perhaps I resented her as well. I had a beautiful, forever-young wife, but I could never show her off in society, I could never enjoy her company outside the confines of our home. I was not even allowed to act as though I had a wife.

"So you see...." He paused to rub a hand over his chin. In all this time, he had not looked at either Zebediah or me, merely stared at whatever happened to be in front of him without really seeing it. "You see... this was a prison, to her. And when at last I finally allowed her to die... it was a relief. It was... what she had been wanting for quite some time. I was simply... too blind, too selfish, to realize that it was what was best for her."

All was very silent for several long moments. I dared not even set down my fork for fear of the noise it would make against the china. After what seemed an age, Mr. Troxill picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, and that broke the tension somewhat. Zebediah finished his eggs, and I took another bite of sausage.

"I am very sorry for your loss," I murmured, looking down at my plate but glancing up briefly at our host.

"Thank you," he replied softly. Then, at last, he looked at me. "Do you understand, now, why you may trust me? If you had not brought her back to me... indeed, if she had never run away with you in the first place... I would never have had a chance to say goodbye to her. She could have died alone in... in an alley. Or in the middle of the street, and then where would that leave us? No, my friends, my dear, dear friends." He looked between us, back and forth. "You saved my heart from a more terrible grief than what it is presently enduring. And for that, I owe you... anything you might ask of me."

I was not quite sure how to respond to such heartfelt gratitude, so I merely nodded and thanked him again. We ate in silence another minute, then a half-stifled sob burst suddenly from Mr. Troxill's mouth. "Excuse me," he breathed, his hand over his mouth, tears in his eyes, and hurried from the room.

I am in my bedroom now, and contemplating our next move. I think I shall ask Mr. Troxill, once he is feeling a little better, if he would be able to arrange a discreet conveyance for us so that we might return to the academy soon. I feel sure that Professor Eberhart will know the best course of action, though I dearly hope he decides we should stay at the school for a while. I am quite ready to remain in familiar settings, and I would so dearly love to keep the same bed for more than five or six nights in a row!

AUTHOR POST: Late post

2008-12-20T00:41:00.003-07:00

I just cannot get Friday's post up tonight! We're closing at work later and later the closer it gets to Christmas, and even though my body is mostly awake, my mind is pretty much done functioning for the day. I'll have "Friday's" update posted by Saturday afternoon, and there will be a post on Sunday, too. If at all possible, I'll make up the missed day on Monday. I set a schedule and I'm going to do my best to stick to it, even during the holidays!

Thanks for your patience and your continued readership. And if you like reading about Bernice's adventures, and know of someone who you think would like it, too, please share the link to this blog! I don't think I'll ever get famous on the web for this odd little thing I'm writing, but the more the merrier! Share the love! Etc.

See you Saturday afternoon!

A Loss and Back Again

2008-12-18T23:53:00.000-07:00

I have found out that surprisingly, we are still very near to Mr. Troxill's house. Violet said she only knows the city from looking at maps in his home, but apparently her memory is very good, for she has been leading us on a careful circuit of the blocks surrounding Mr. Troxill's house. Her logic was that he would expect us to flee as far and as fast as possible, and so would ignore the area nearest him in searching for us. Other than the close call yesterday, her plan has worked well thus far.

We are currently in another park, smaller than the last. Most of the snow has melted, so we have been trudging through slush all day. We are now avoiding the busiest streets since Zebediah got splashed with freezing muddy water and half-soaked as a cabriolet flew past and hit a puddle. He said several times that he was fine, but I noticed how he shivered for quite a while afterwards. We are all cold, of course, but being hit with a wall of water that had been ice just a few hours before would make the chill even worse.

In the quiet hours when I cannot sleep these past couple of nights, I have been reading back through this diary to keep my mind off of all the fears that threaten to overwhelm me and have realized (again), that for the past several weeks, life has been alternately terrifying and dreary. At least when things were boring at Saint Anne's, I always knew what to expect. I had the same schedule every day of waking and dressing and eating and lessons. Weekends were for chores with a little recreation, church on Sundays, and trips into town now and then on Saturdays.

I had such high hopes for excitement when I left the orphanage! I simply knew that when I left Saint Anne's on my eighteenth birthday, wonderful, splendid things were bound to happen. And indeed, things did happen, but it wasn't the kind of excitement I would have willingly welcomed into my life. Kidnapping and battles, gunfire and "gliding," lectures and terrible truths learnt. Some good has come of all this, I admit. I am very glad to have met Captain Jack Winters, even if he was not quite what I expected. I am happy to have finally learnt about my parents--where they came from and what they did--though it is more tragic than I ever imagined, even if they died heroes. And of course Zebediah's friendship has been invaluable, and I have thought often how very many times I would surely have given up if he had not been by my side.

And then there is my Gift, wonderful and terrible at once. Violet knows about it, of course, because of the posters, but she has not asked for a demonstration and I have not offered one. I am nervous about using my Illumination unless there is great need, as there was in the forest when I needed it to make a fire at night, and when at last I remembered that I could draw water from the earth. When I was taking lessons from Professor Eberhart, I knew he was near and able to either correct me, or help me if anything went terribly wrong. But now I am without a tutor!

All in all, the last month and a half has been very full and very exciting, and I find myself now wishing for some normality! Which is something I never thought I would do, after longing for adventure all my life. Miss P___ always said to be careful what you wished for....

_____

Oh dear, Violet is doing very badly. I noticed she had been walking more slowly all day, and not long ago when we sat down to another awful supper of lukewarm chicken soup (which contained no chicken) she hardly ate at all. Now we are crammed into a corner upstairs from a third soup kitchen (it would be unsafe to visit the same one twice, as we are on the run) and her breathing is laboured. Her face is frighteningly pale, and she seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Zebediah went to get her a glass of water while I sat with her, but she drank only a sip before pushing it away. She will not speak, and I fear that if she tried, we would not be able to understand her for stuttering, as it has grown steadily worse all day.

_____

Oh, Dear Reader! Terrible news! Violet is gone, dead! I was not even particularly fond of her in life, but now that she is gone, I feel so very sad and empty. I feel that I have witnessed too much death lately: in the battle on the Erebos, in the forest with the attack, and just tonight, here at Mr. Troxill's. Yes, we are back.

As I do not think I will be able to sleep for a while, I shall now related what happened.

Not long after I last wrote here, Violet begged us to take her back to Mr. Troxill. It took some time to understand her, since her voice was so weak and she stuttered so badly, but eventually we became aware of her wishes. At first I tried to dissuade her, saying that we could find her a doctor, but she was insistent and said that only Mr. Troxill could help her now.

Reluctantly, I helped her into her coat and gloves, and Mr. Miller and I, supporting her on each side, got her downstairs. The man at the door said we could not come back once we had left, and though we were worried about where we would stay for the rest of the night, we simply nodded at him and went outside into the freezing cold. One comfort was that surely no one who had been following us (if, indeed, anyone had been following us), would be out at this late hour and likely to run into us.

Thank goodness (yet again) for Zebediah, since he was able to lead us back to Mr. Troxill's house. I had no idea whatsoever where we were in relation to the man's home, and Violet was, of course, unable to direct us. But Zebediah started off with determination, which in turn helped to bolster my own spirits a little. Still, it seemed that we trudged through the frozen sludge for hours, but at last the back door of Mr. Troxill's house appeared before us. Propping Violet between himself and the wall, Zebediah told me to get the key from her pocket so we could get in. I wondered why we could not knock, but he told me the servants would surely wake, and we should not bother them at such a late hour. So I searched through all of Violet's coat pockets as well as those in her skirt before finally finding the key on the blue ribbon. Once the door was open, I helped get her inside and lay her on the sofa in the library, then sat next to her while Zebediah bravely went to retrieve Mr. Troxill.

For several agonizing minutes, I sat in terror that Mr. Troxill would come out of his room armed, having disposed of Zebediah, and take me as well, since he had missed out on the bounty he would have received if he'd turned us in to Belleclaire as planned. But the man who followed Zebediah into the library looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and his grey and white hair standing up from his head. "Violet," he whispered, and fell onto his knees beside her, taking her frail little hand between both his own. He bent over her silently for a minute, and I stood up and crossed the room to give them some space. Zebediah looked as worried as I felt, and we stood close together.

Eventually Mr. Troxill looked up, then over his shoulder so his gaze fell upon us both. "Thank you," he said in a voice raspy with tears. "Thank you." He kissed Violet's hand and smoothed her hair back from her face, looking on her with all the love in the world.

"Eli," Violet whispered, her eyes fluttering open as if she only just noticed the man bending over her.

"Yes, my love, I am here," he replied. This shocked me greatly, for how could a woman of Violet's age have a lover of Mr. Troxill's age? And she had seemed to hate him, almost, the night we left. She had not spoken of him since, but... she had asked for him when she grew so ill. I looked to Zebediah, but he had averted his eyes from the two and I could not tell what he was thinking.

"H-hurt," she breathed, though I saw her squeeze his hand weakly.

"I know, I know, my darling. This is why I did not want you to leave me. I knew this would happen."

"W-w-wanted.... to. H-had to." It seemed as though every word she spoke cost her a lot of energy. She was so pale now that I could see a web of blue veins through the thin skin of her face.

"I am sorry, so sorry, my love. Wait, I shall return in a moment," he said. He kissed her forehead, then rose and hurried out of the room.

I ventured a little nearer, looking down at poor Violet. "Can I... get you anything?" I asked softly. She stared up at me for a moment as though she did not hear me, then her eyes focused and she shook her head slowly side to side. Biting my lip, I stepped back again, feeling terribly useless, but at least not quite so frightened that Mr. Troxill would turn us over to Belleclaire any minute.

He returned quickly with something in his hand; as he approached, Violet began to look a little less pale and a little more alert. He knelt next to her again and opened his hand; a pale blue glow emanated from whatever it was that he held. "Here," he murmured, and held it close to her face.

But Violet flinched back from it, squinting her eyes against the light. She shook her head again, though it looked as though she could speak if she wished.

"Darling, you need it."

"N-no," she said. "Please." She took several deep breaths, then lifted her hand to push his away.

"Violet, please, you--"

"No," she said again, with a little more strength in her voice. "Eli... Please." Another couple of deep breaths. "L-let me... go."

"My love, no," he said, appalled, grief-stricken. He closed his hand around the glow to comply with her wishes, but leaned closer over her. "You can't leave me, not now! I've only just got you back, and you'll see, things will be different! I swear, whatever you--"

"Eli," said Violet again. "Please. P-please, I n-need this. It has been... too long."

Mr. Troxill stared at her for a long minute. My eyes were filled with tears, even though I understood little of what was being said. It sounded like Violet was asking him to let her die, but why would she do that? This had been going on for some time, she said, but what, exactly, had been going on? And how could Mr. Troxill love her so dearly while she wanted nothing more than to get away from him?

"Violet," he whispered, and bent over her so far that his forehead rested against hers. His shoulders shook, and I realized he was crying. As I turned to look at Zebediah, he touched my elbow and began leading me out of the room, as if he had read my mind. I closed the door softly, then wandered toward the dining room, it being the only other room I was comfortable going into.

We waited only a few minutes, then Mr. Troxill opened the door, a terribly grave look on his face. "She is gone," he whispered, not even bothering to wipe his eyes as more tears fell. Inexplicably, I began to cry as well. Zebediah, who was sitting next to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and I was glad of his nearness.

We are now installed in our old rooms upstairs with Mr. Troxill's solemn promise that we would be safe here for as long as we wished to stay. He repented of his greed which caused him to (almost) turn us over to Captain Belleclaire, and swore that he would be our friend forever because we brought his beloved wife back to him.

Yes, his wife. He said he would explain all tomorrow, so I must put this away and sleep for a few hours, which now seems like it would be the easiest thing in the world, since I am so exhausted

Winter Walking and A Kiss With a Purpose

2008-12-15T00:02:00.000-07:00

As soon as the soup kitchen opened in the morning, we were all turned back onto the street, though we did get a bowl of watery boiled oats and a small cup of bitter, black coffee first. We spent the morning wandering through town, keeping to quiet side streets and places that, frankly, seemed dangerous for two young women and a young man alone. I knew Zebediah was armed and would defend us if anything terrible happened, but did not fancy a repeat of that night in the forest with the knife.

Luckily, all went relatively well, but for the cold. It had snowed all night, so all day we trudged through wet white fluff several inches deep (and, as the day wore on, the whiteness grew increasingly grey and brown, as well as slushy in some places and icy in others). I had put on my oldest set of clothes before we left Troxill's, the white ones I had been wearing on the train, then wore on the dirigibles and at the academy. The fine coat given to me on the Erebos is fine no longer, what with the burn marks and the dirt, as well as the missing button I noticed only today. I looked very much a peasant, as did Zebediah, but Violet stood out more in a gown the colour of her name (again with a high neck and very long skirt and sleeves) with amethyst-coloured lace trim and buttons of, I think, the actual gem itself. She told us she took the maid's coat in some effort to disguise herself somewhat, and wore her shabbiest dress (if that is her shabbiest, I should like to see the rest!) but even the slightly stiff way she walks draws some attention, hence the reason we stayed out of sight all day as much as possible.

I was deemed the least-recognizable of the three of us, so I was sent into a shoppe to buy lunch: cold, stale ham sandwiches wrapped in very wrinkled (and so, I think, reused) brown paper. They were terrible, but filling, so we ate them quickly as we walked the outskirts of the park.

As we ate, I noticed Violet staring about in wonder, and touching her face every so often, as if checking for something. Then she actually took off a glove to examine her hand from all angles. "Are you quite all right?" I asked as she wriggled her fingers back into the warmth of the wool.

"Quite, th-thank you," she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

"But is anything the matter? You seem as though... you are trying to convince yourself you are real. As though you have awoken from a terrible nightmare and want to make sure it was only a dream."

"I have woken from a nightmare," she said, her voice soft, her eyes far away for a moment. "Mr. Troxill always said I would die if I lef-left the house," she went on, "that I would be too far from him and his Illumination and I w-would crumble. But I came to a point not long ago where I d-did not care any longer whether I l-lived or died. I wanted to know. So here I am, out and about, and as well as ever. As well as can be-be expected."

How terrible an existence she must have had, to feel thusly! I wanted to know the details of it, and also wanted to ask about her stutter, but thought it would be unimaginably rude to mention either, so I kept my mouth shut as we walked on, mostly to keep warm, but also to keep moving in case Mr. Troxill or Captain Belleclaire was looking for us.

We did have a bit of a scare, actually. Not long after we left the park and returned to the shadowed back streets, Zebediah caught hold of my arm and spelled on my palm that he thought he had seen someone he recognized from the Erebos. Tense all over, I asked what we should do. "Split up," he spelled.

"What about Violet?" I whispered. By this time, she was giving us strange looks, but I ignored her for the moment.

"Go with her. I will catch up," spelled Zebediah.

I did not like this at all. I did not really like Violet, and felt much safer in Zebediah's company, but I realized that anyone who knew us would either be looking for a young man and a young woman together, or the same two with a second young woman. "Very well," I murmured, already beginning to veer away from him and toward Violet. "If anything... should happen," I whispered to him, hardly letting myself think of what could go wrong, "meet at... at the soup kitchen where we spent the night."

He nodded, then took my hand and leaned in to kiss my cheek before turning abruptly away down another street, while Violet and I continued straight.

"It was for cover," she muttered, surely noticing my bright red blush. "If we are being fol-followed, it will look as though a man was bid-bidding his wife farewell after m-meeting her for lunch, then sending her on-on her way with a female f-friend."

Of course, I thought, of course that's all it was. But it felt as though his lips were still against my skin for at least ten minutes after he had gone.

Zebediah found us again not quite an hour later. He looked the same as when he left, and spelled out "False alarm" on my hand, but something in his eyes told me differently. I did not press him in Violet's company, though.

_____

We are above another soup kitchen now, this one marginally cleaner and better-smelling than the last. Violet is asleep nearby, and I can hear a faint ticking sound in between her breaths. I am still agonizingly curious about her, since it is said that no true clockworks have been seen since before Amerigonian colonization, but she seems to play everything very close to the chest and I do not think she would answer my questions even if I dared to ask them.

Zebediah is awake, and has just told me he did, indeed, find the man he thought was following us. He was another former crewmember, but Zebediah was able to sneak up behind him and merely knock him unconscious, for which I am sure we are both grateful. But I think the sooner we can get out of this town, the better.

Truth Learnt and Danger Avoided

2008-12-14T02:07:00.002-07:00

Terrible news, Dear Reader! We are once again in great danger, and have fled for our lives with nothing more than what we can carry.

This morning, I found that a note had been slipped under my door, and thank goodness I found it before the maid came in to build up the fire! It was from the girl, whose name is Violet. (She provided no surname.) She told me she had found my note last night, and very much appreciated my offer of friendship. She went on to say that, if she might be so bold so early in our relationship (if it can even be called such, as we have not even properly met each other) I needed to trust her in something.

If, she wrote, I trusted her and wanted to remain safe and free, I should mention at lunch that I am not feeling well, then stay in my room during supper complaining of a sick headache. I was not to eat or drink anything sent up by Mr. Troxill, no matter who brought it to me, and I was to communicate all of this to Zebediah. He was to say he was catching the same illness I had, and so avoid seeing our host at supper as well. She did not tell me the reason for any of this, but swore she would come and see me very late at night.

Dear Reader, I did try to stay awake, but having eaten and drunk nothing since the little I had at lunch (playing the part, I only picked at my food), I was a bit weak, so when I lay down on my bed a little past the normal time for supper, I was soon asleep. I awoke to see Violet standing over me, though she put her finger to her lips to signal silence as soon as my eyes opened.

Obliging her, I sat up and reached over to shake the lamp on my bedside table, but she stopped my hand. "Go and retrieve your friend from down the hall," she whispered. I nodded, then slipped out of my room to tap lightly on Zebediah's. He must have been waiting for me--though I know not how he knew I would come--for he answered the door only a few seconds later. I, also, put my finger to my lips, then motioned for him to follow me back to my room. It felt a little odd, bringing him to my own room so late at night, but if things were as bad as Violet seemed to think, it was precedented.

Violet asked us to please be seated, so I took the little chair by the fire, but Zebediah remained standing after he brought the desk chair over for Violet to sit in. She refused it with a small shake of her head (and I thought I heard the whirring of tiny gears as she did so), but he stayed on his feet regardless, standing to the right of my chair and a little behind it. Violet seemed to gather her courage for a moment, then began speaking.

"I suppose I have worried you with my... cryp-cryptic note." I nodded and gave an encouraging smile to show I did not begrudge her it, wondering at her stutter. "Let me assure you it was not for nothing, my warning. My--Mr. Troxill intended to dru-drug you at supper with something put in your food. He sent you both something-something else, did he not?"

"Tea and toast," I said, nodding. "I picked the toast apart and poured the tea in the flower pot." I nodded at the half-shriveled little thing, though fear not, as it has looked like that since my arrival; it did not die just because of the drugged tea. "You didn't touch your tray, did you?" I asked Zebediah. He shook his head.

"Good," said Violet. "That, too, would have been drugged. When you wo-woke up tomorrow morning, it would have been on a dirig-dirigible already far from here. I believe you are familiar with C-captain Bellclaire."

Lightning shot down my spine and I looked up at Zebediah. He had gone suddenly pale, and his eyes were filled with worry as he met my gaze. "We... are familiar with the man, yes," I said slowly, not sure how much Violet knew and wondering if it would be wise to disclose the whole story to her.

"Mr. Troxill told me that you were ta-taken by Belleclaire several weeks ago in order to be brought to a powerful man who paid him-paid him for you. You have talents, Miss Greenwater, which may men in this c-country and others would kill for. Have killed for."

Another shiver went through me. "And he was going to turn us back over to the captain?" I asked, a bit of a tremble in my voice.

"For a share of the mon-money," Violet confirmed. "He told me this the day after you arrived. He somehow got in contact with the cap-captain and arranged the deal. It is not the first time he has d-done something like this, nor, I think, will it be the last."

At this point, I think I may have begun to panic a little. "What shall we do?" I asked. "They will come for us and take us aboard the ship even if we are not passed out from drugging!"

"I can get you out," Violet said earnestly, though there was something about her eyes that seemed cold. "I must admit, however, that I do this-this not only to help you, but out of selfish reasons. Your note last night de-decided it for me. This is my one op-opportunity to escape, and I must take it."

"Escape?" I echoed, bewildered. "What do you mean, escape? Are you not... Mr. Troxill's ward? Or...?"

She did not answer my question, only said, "If you leave, you must t-take me with you. That is my condition. Otherwise you will be handed over to Captain Belle-belleclaire within the hour."

Alarmed, I looked at the clock over the fireplace to see it was well past midnight! I had slept longer than I thought. "How do you know this?" I asked, again starting to panic.

"He was g-gloating to me earlier this evening. He spoke of all the money he-he would make by turning you in."

"I thought he was our friend!" I cried, (though quietly). "And a friend of Professor Eberhart's too! How could he do this?" The fine clothes, the wonderful food, the hospitality. All a ruse to get us to stay here and be content, to not ask questions.

"He cares more for mon-money than anything else," Violet said, and she sounded so unutterably tired when she said it that I did not press her for more information, especially since this was almost the most emotion I had yet heard in her slightly tinny voice. "Will you go, then? Or stay-stay and meet your downfall when the mercenaries arrive?"

I looked up at Zebediah again. I half expected him to be gloating over the fact that he had been right about Mr. Troxill all along, but all he looked was worried.

"What do you think?" I asked him in hand speech, since we could not have a private conversation with Violet so nearby. She watched us, her head tilted a little to one side, but said nothing.

"We must go," he replied, though he spelled the words out on my palm. "Spell words. She is sharp, could understand gestures."

That made sense, certainly. Though she had proven herself to be our friend (though for selfish reasons, but if she was truly that desperate, I suppose I cannot blame her) I still wanted to discuss this in private. "Where could we go?" I spelled back.

"Ask," he told me.

"To where will we flee?" I asked aloud, turning to face Violet.

"I have a plan. We can st-stay in the city a day or two, and then we must part. I think you-you should return to the academy. Gloating still, Mr. Troxill told me the 'old fool' had been dee-deemed harmless. It should be safe there, now."

My heart sank at the thought of more days and nights spent in the endless forest, for as "wanted fugitives," we could not take the main roads or sleep in inns, especially after escaping Belleclaire's grasp yet again. Then something else occurred to me. "They will know we have gone back to the academy," I said.

Violet only shook her head. "I cannot h-help you," she said. "I can only free you from this gilded prison."

I glanced at Zebediah once more for confirmation, which he gave with a look. "We will go with you," I said, "but first answer me one question."

"Yes?"

"Are you a clockwork?" I asked bluntly. I know it may have been petty and silly, Dear Reader, but I felt I would die if I did not know for sure before we parted ways forever!

Hesitating only a second, Violet looked at me hard, then asked, "Do I look like a ch-child's wind-up toy?"

"That is not what I mean," I said impatiently, the need for haste finally clicking in my mind. "A clockwork. A human with machine parts, imbued with Illumination in order to retain life. Are you from that era centuries ago when such creatures were common, or--"

"I am not a creature," she said with heat in her voice. "I am..." She cast about as if searching for the right words, and seemed a little lost for a moment, but then she recovered. "I am... what you say. Mr. Troxill, if you did n-not know, is Gifted. He... made me what I am."

"How did you come to be like this?"

"If you want to make it out of here before your friend the captain arrives," she said as though she did not hear me, "I suggest you pack what you can, and quickly. Make no sound, and meet me in the little hallway that leads to the kitchen in ten minutes." She took a key from her pocket and waved it about so it spun from the blue ribbon threaded through the top, then without another word, she left us.

In truth, I had forgotten Mr. Miller was still behind my chair until he put a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, startled, but then let out a breath and apologised. "I suppose we should do as she says." I rose to begin gathering my things, but Zebediah stayed. "You must go and pack," I told him, but he hesitated still. "I am fine," I assured him, setting down the hairbrush I had been holding and crossing the room to stand near him. "We must do... what we must do. And if, in order to escape, we have to help Violet out of here as well... so be it."

He nodded with a little half-shrug to show his agreement, but stepped forward and took my hand. I thought he was going to spell something on it, but he merely held it between both his own for a while, looking down into my eyes. Then he let go and returned to his own room.

We are currently, all three, in a cramped and smelly room above a soup kitchen, where at least a hundred homeless vagabonds sprawl sleeping and snoring. I am scribbling this by the moonlight peeping in through a filthy window, and must now sleep myself. More details soon. Tomorrow we are on the run yet again, and I must be ready for it.

AUTHOR POST: Impromptu Holiday

2008-12-12T23:20:00.002-07:00

Due to a desire for sleep sometime this week, as well as wanting to visit with my parents whom I am visiting (and I thought it would be a little rude to ignore them while I sit and type for an hour or two), I'm taking today off! Huzzah for 41 days in a row of writing.... and I'll see you tomorrow! Tune in to find out more about the clockwork girl (or is she?) as well as Mr. Troxill and, of course, Mr. Miller and Bernice.

Goodnight!

Nothing, Nothing, Nothing, and A Note

2008-12-11T23:38:00.000-07:00

Zebediah had not seen the young woman either, nor heard her nor seen any sign of her. He told me he would be on the lookout for her, though, and do his best to be friendly if he came across her. All the more I can think is that she is a ward of Mr. Troxill, or perhaps a niece or other relative, and she is unwell and therefore discouraged from meeting new people because of her health. Although if she is a clockwork, she should not be able to get ill... But she cannot be a clockwork! And yet the metal at her wrists and neck... I do not know!

Anyway, Mr. Miller and I both agreed not to say a word of her to Mr. Troxill. We would not want her reprimanded for something that was not her fault. Although if possible, I would like to at least leave her a message telling her I would like to be friends, and perhaps she could speak to Mr. Troxill about venturing into my company for a short time.

_____

It is evening now, and we have all just retired upstairs. We sat in the library for a while after supper, and I made sure I was the last to leave the room. I had communicated my plan to Zebediah earlier, so he let me be.

Once Mr. Troxill and Zebediah were nearly to their respective rooms, I stooped low near the fire, as I thought it might be the girl's job to tend to it, given how I saw her last night, bent over it. I dropped a folded piece of paper in the corner, where the right wall of the fireplace meets a little overlap of the bricks that make up the front of it all. It could only be seen if one was very close to the fire, which was now nothing more than glowing embers, or if one was across the room and happened to look into that corner. I had written "From Miss Greenwater" in small script across the front, but the rest of the words were hidden inside the folds. I put down what I said before, about wishing to be her friend, and requesting she ask Mr. Troxill if she might be allowed to visit with me for a short amount of time now and then.

Once that was done, I hurried up to my room. Now all I have to do is wait, and see if the girl succeeds in convincing her uncle (or whatever) to let her see visitors, or she smuggles another note to me. I hope this will not be the end of it, as it is all very intriguing

AUTHOR POST: Update schedule

2008-12-11T00:32:00.004-07:00

Hello again, Dear Readers! Thanks to all of you who weighed in on my Reader Poll a while back! I really appreciate the feedback, especially the hand-written (typed) comments. If you haven't yet voted and would like to, please feel free to do so! I'll probably keep the poll open through the year's end. (Just don't vote more than once, please.)

Now for the new order of business: Updates. The majority of you said you would like for me to continue updating once a day, which I've done successfully for 40 straight days now! (Woohoo! This makes me happy.) However, since the craziness of NaNoWriMo is officially over, the last ten days have just been my own personal craziness, and it's... kind of a lot.

I wish I could update every day! I wish I could have three stories to update every day! But unfortunately I have a paycheck to earn, and when I get done doing that for the day, I have house things to do like laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, etc. Also, free time is nice, such as reading blogs, socializing with friends, and watching movies. So on days when I work (which has been Monday-Friday lately), I usually don't even start writing for Bernice's diary until 9 or 10 at night. This means I stay up past midnight, then get up early for work the next morning. And then do it all over again.

Somehow, miraculously, this has worked for the past 40 days! But I'm afraid I'm going to get burnt out if I keep it up too much longer. I'm no longer facing public humiliation now that November is over (I ended my "novel" at 590 words above the 50,000 word goal, if you're curious) so really I'm doing this just for the joy of doing it.

So it needs to remain a joy, and not a chore. Even when it was, occasionally, a chore, I still had fun with it! But I think the fun would increase if I didn't write quite so much, quite so often. I could plan a little better and a little further in the story, take my time to make each entry the best it can be for your personal enjoyment, and make the tale all together a more pleasant way to spend ten minutes of your day.

To make a short story long: I'm cutting back the updates a little. Bernice will now post 4 new diary entries per week instead of 7, and I'm going to aim at updating Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. If this works for a while, I might add another day on there eventually (likely Monday), but I'm going to try Thu-Sun first and see how that goes.

Each day I post will still be one day in Bernice's life. So when I don't post Monday through Wednesday, you won't have missed three days of Bernice's adventures. Thursday's entry will pick up where Sunday's left off.

Does all of that make sense? Sorry for my long-windedness, it's late at night and I'm a little sleep-deprived, as I said. So off to bed with me! Offer feedback in the comments if you'd like. I'm very glad you're still reading this madness after more than a month of it! And I hope you'll stick with me (and Bernice) as the adventures continue. Here's to another fabulous 40 days!

A Mishap Narrowly Avoided and Someone New

2008-12-11T00:32:00.001-07:00

Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. No word from Professor Eberhart. Nowhere we can go but the library, our rooms, and the dining room. Nothing to occupy us but reading, and sewing, on my part. Zebediah has given me his old pair of trousers so I can mend the knee. The maid got the blood stains out of his clothes most admirably (and did not mention them, thank goodness), but I begged her to let me patch them up, just for something to do. After the trousers, I shall work on the unraveling cuff of his fingerless gloves.

I suppose I may as well do that now, while the light is still good. We passed the morning with more poetry, and invented some more hand words when we lacked the gestures to discuss the poems. Now it is about one, and I shall return to the library to make use of the sunlight.

_____

Mr. Troxill just made a very good point, as he passed by the open doorway. "Oh, my dear, you should not sit so close to the window," he said. "I would certainly hate for anyone passing by to recognize you."

I thanked him and apologised for my foolishness, then moved further into the room after half-drawing the curtains. Zebediah kindly brought a lamp nearer to me, though I did notice the glare he gave Mr. Troxill's back as our host left. I did not say anything, though, as it would only lead to another argument, which would benefit neither of us. Close quarters cause conflict, Miss P___ would say (both as advice and as a tongue-twister to make us work on our enunciation when reciting), and I do want to avoid trouble.

_____

I have met someone new! An hour before dinner, Zebediah and I returned to our rooms, but I realized I had forgotten my pen in the library. I wouldn't have bothered, only I didn't want to leave clutter in someone else's home, so I hurried back downstairs to retrieve it. Expecting the dimly-lit room to be empty, I gave a little cry when I noticed a figure bending over the fire.

Immediately, the person stood up, and I could see it was a young woman about my age or a little older. Only when I took a second look, something seemed not quite right. There was a gleam of metal at her wrists and throat, but not of jewelry. She held herself stiffly, and when she moved, it was as though... I cannot describe it very well, but it was as though she calculated every flex and stretch of muscle to stand just so; as if she had memorized certain positions and forced herself into them. "Sorry to have disturbed you," she said almost too softly to be heard, though it seemed I was the one who had disturbed her.

As I had come for my pen, I snatched it up from the table quickly, then turned my attention back to the girl. The more I think of her face, the younger she seems to look. "I'm Bernice Greenwater," I said, and took a few steps forward so I could hold out my hand for her to shake.

She hesitated a moment, looking at my hand like it was a poisonous plant, but then she gingerly took my fingers between her own for all of a second and a half before letting go. "Pleased to meet you," she murmured in the same quiet voice, then turned toward the door.

"Are you a guest here as well?" I asked quickly. Meeting her was the most interesting thing that had happened for two days, and I did not want her to leave just yet.

"I am not to roam the house when there are strangers present," she said, and again started toward the door. As she moved, I heard a faint whirring sound, like the noise Professor Eberhart's eye made when he moved or focused it. And her movements were so careful and stiff... I realized the metal at her joints were indeed her joints! Her face and head seemed lifelike enough, and her hair, as well as her hands and fingers. But the collar of her dress covered her neck up to her chin, her sleeves were long, and her skirt covered her feet, so I could not see more. I hesitate to say she was entirely of clockwork, but she was certainly not entirely human, either. It just seems so odd, because such creatures have not been known to exist for several centuries.

"I'm not a stranger," I told her, trying to get her to stay. "I'm a guest of Mr. Troxill's. Mr. Miller and I. Have you seen him around, too?"

She shook her head. "I am not to roam the house when strangers are present," she repeated, then nearly ran to the door. When she had pulled it open, she paused in the doorway, then looked back over her shoulder at me. "Please do not tell him you saw me," she said. "Please."

There was such earnestness in her eyes, perhaps even fear, that I nodded immediately, and then she was gone. I followed her as quickly as I was able, but only saw the swish of her skirts as she went down the narrow corridor in the direction I knew Mr. Troxill's rooms to be. Of course I could not follow, and so I returned to my room, pen in hand, mind whirling.

Very, very curious. She did not say I could not mention her to Zebediah; I shall ask him if he has seen her, and if not, what he thinks of her.

Luxurious Laziness and Poems Shared

2008-12-10T00:49:00.000-07:00

My goodness, I had such a strange dream which kept repeating itself all night! Sheep were jumping over the top of Zebediah and I where we lay on the forest floor, rattling the branches of the makeshift shelter over us. I was terrified the whole structure would crash down on us, and then the sheep (who were for some reason vicious, bloodthirsty animals) would get to us. Periodically, I would only just save myself from rolling into the fire which burned between Zebediah and I. I woke feeling hardly rested at all, and was glad to see the late morning sunlight fighting to break through the curtains. I must dress for breakfast now (in my beautiful new clothes!) and go downstairs. I hope I have not slept too embarrassingly late.

Oh, my! I have just checked my pocket watch and it is nearly ten! Must hurry!

_____

I feel lately as though I have done nothing but wait. I waited on the train to get to Reliance; I waited on the Erebos to be rescued; I waited on the Tourbillion to arrive at the academy; I waited at the academy until my Gifts were well-developed enough to be of some use; I waited in the wilderness to be caught; and I am waiting here, now, for I know not what.

Mr. Troxill was very kind and made no mention of how late I slept when I arrived to find him and Mr. Miller in the middle of breakfast. They were more toward the end, really; I think they had been eating slowly so as to still be at table when I got there.

"Good morning, Miss Greenwater," Mr. Troxill said as a servant held my chair for me, which was to the left of Mr. Troxill and opposite Mr. Miller. “I trust you slept well?”

“Very well, sir, thank you,” I lied. The bed was comfortable, at least, even if I did not gain much rest in it. “Your hospitality overwhelms me.”

“Not at all, not at all,” he said. “I am glad to take you in for the sake of my friend the professor.”

I helped myself to coffee and toast, then sausage, then asked for a soft-boiled egg when Mr. Troxill inquired if I would like anything else. I ate heartily, as all the food was of excellent quality. Much better than hard rolls and cheese, for certain, indeed better than anything I had eaten at the academy, and definitely nicer than anything I had on the airships. If I am forced to wait here, at least I shall do so in fine clothes, in a lovely house, with wonderful things to eat!

“Your friend Mr. Miller has asked me to provide him with some useful occupation while he resides here,” Mr. Troxill said, holding up a piece of paper on which I could see Zebediah’s clear, capital letters. “I am afraid I can offer him very little to do. I have servants to bring wood, to clean and cook.”

“He is a very hard worker, sir,” I told our host, glancing at Zebediah with pride in my eyes. “He does not like to sit idle. Um, nor do I,” I added. “If there is anything I might do here, please--”

“Now now, I said last night that you should not mention it,” he interrupted. To tell the truth, I felt a little relieved, having looked forward to a day or two, at least, of leisure after all the hardships I--we--had been through.

“Still, sir,” I felt compelled to say. “If there is anything, only mention it.”

Looking bemused, he nodded. “I shall,” he said, and we resumed our breakfast.

As the plates and glasses were being cleared away, Zebediah “spoke” to me across the table, using a combination of hand speech and spelling on the table with his fingertip, which I had become quite adept at reading.

“What is that?” Mr. Troxill asked, looking perplexed. “What is he doing?”

“It is how we communicate, sir,” I told him. “As he is unable to speak, and as we have been alone together for many days, Mr. Miller and I have invented a way to communicate using hand gestures. What words we do not have hands speech for, he spells out.”

“Very curious,” Mr. Troxill said, studying Mr. Miller. “And what did he say?”

I am sure Zebediah did not appreciate being spoken of as if he was not sitting right there, but I had no choice but to answer, since he could not. “He said he would like to take a walk, but is afraid we would be recognized. Although,” I added to Mr. Miller himself, “I have had rather enough of walking as of late.” I smiled, but he frowned back at me, which I did not understand. Was he not tired of walking, as well? We had become accustomed to taking a stroll morn and eve at the academy, and on the Erebos before that, but for the past week we have done nothing but walk. I was and am looking forward very much to a bit of a respite. Who knows when we shall have to dash off again, and do who knows what for who knows how long?

_____

Zebediah’s bad mood continued all morning. He sat with us in the library while Mr. Troxill and I conversed, though I did not reveal anything about my Illumination, or much at all about the past month of my life with the kidnapping and the rescue and all. Our host did question me, but I demurred as much as I was able without seeming rude. After a while, he got the point, and discontinued any questions but those I could answer freely, such as how Professor Eberhart was faring, and if the academy still had cricket matches every other Saturday. (The former I answered gladly, and told Mr. Troxill of his friend's good health, but the latter I did not know; I assumed the matches had been discontinued until better weather.)

The moment Mr. Troxill left us to attend to some business (I am not sure what he does, but I think it has to do with banking or investments or something similar, given the columns of numbers scattered across stacks of papers on his desk), Zebediah went into a flurry of hand words and spelling, too fast for me to understand.

“Slow down,” I urged him, putting my hand atop his where he was spelling something on my palm; I only caught every other letter, he went so fast. “What is the matter?”

He pointed at himself, made a slashing motion with his hand, then pointed at the door.

“You... don’t want to go?” I asked.

Appearing even more frustrated, he repeated the gestures, then spelled on my hand: “DON’T TRUST TROXILL. LOOK.” He pointed out the Britannian flag displayed behind glass over the fireplace mantle, the talbotype of their late prime minister on the desk, and guided me to a row of books containing a history of the continent from a time before they had even called themselves Britainnians.

“You are making too much of it. I am sure they are... family heirlooms,” I said, trying to calm him down. "The war ended not two decades ago, and he seems to be from an ‘old money’ family. Of course they would have ties to Britannia.”

Zebediah shook his head, a frown etched onto his face seemingly permanently. He pointed at himself again, made the slashing motion which meant "do not," then paused, thinking. His next gesture was made by putting all his fingertips together with his thumb, then using his semi-closed hand to point at his chest. "LIKE" he spelled on my palm, then repeated the gesture to teach me that it meant that word. "I do not like Troxill," he told me.

"He is a friend of Professor Eberhart's," I sighed. "You trust him, do you not?" Zebediah nodded, though begrudgingly. "All will be well, you will see. We shall rest here in comfort a while, then probably go back to the academy when the professor says it is safe. Anyway," I said, sinking back into my comfortable chair with the little cushion I had placed just so, to support my lower back, "where else are we to go? We are wanted criminals, as far as anyone else knows."

Zebediah sighed and returned to his own seat, nodding reluctantly.

We sat in silence for a minute, then I asked, "Shall I read to you again?" When he agreed, I told him to choose a book; after perusing the shelves for a little while, he handed me a volume of poetry from a well-known author who wrote about half a century ago before dying tragically young. "I did not think of you as a man who appreciated poetry," I said, surprise loosening my tongue. "Oh! I mean... I did not mean..."

He cut me off with a wave of his hand, seeming to understand that I did not intend to insult him. "Read," he told me, and sat back down.

I went through poem after poem, sometimes offering commentary on them, or asking Zebediah his opinion. We passed the remainder of the morning that way, lunched with our host, read a little more, then retired to our respective rooms to rest for a while before supper. I am sure it drove him mad, having nothing to do, but I shall see him soon at our evening meal. I lay down and dozed for a while, then wrote this. Now I shall wash my face and hands and descend to the dining room.

A Book Shared and Fine New Clothes

2008-12-08T23:54:00.000-07:00

Past lunch now, and still no word from Professor Eberhart. I keep thinking that our wire was intercepted by a crewman of the Erebos, or even someone else working for Belleclaire or (worse) Bergstrom, and they are on their way here to kill us or kidnap us, but when I catch myself thinking such things, I try and focus on other, better thoughts.

Mr. --Goodness! Why is it so difficult to remember to call him by his given name? Zebediah told me his shoulder is feeling almost entirely well now. Evidently the first mate, Reva, also serves as the ship's surgeon when there is call for it, and is assisted by the cook. They patched him up as best as they could, though his escape and flight shortly after the battle did no favours to the wound. It healed somewhat badly, he said, and has formed yet another scar to add to his collection. ("Add" is made by forming a "plus" symbol with both index fingers, but as we did not have a hand word for "collection," he spelled it out on the table.) My curiosity was peaked, hearing (ha, hearing! seeing) that, but I did not pry and ask what other scars he carries. I can imagine living on a mercenary dirigible for three years, one could find oneself in all sorts of trouble. I do not know if his previous master was always so violent as he was the day he slashed Zebediah's throat, but I do not like to think on that, either, and hope he bears no other scars from that man.

I am still wearing his clothes, as I will be the less easily recognizable of the two of us if I must answer the door for a message, or go out into town for anything we might need. We have been dining here, and taking everything that can be taken--that is to say, everything but the messy roast for lunch, and our cups of coffee at breakfast and lunch both--back to our rooms to eat, so there is less a chance of being spotted and recognized, but I may need to later go into town to send another wire, or buy something the inn does not provide. I do not anticipate going out into the city before we have heard from the professor, but it always does good to be prepared, as Miss P___ would say. I have loosened my stays a little bit, though my breathing is still rather more restricted than usual. Otherwise, I keep my hair pinned up and beneath Zebediah's cap, ready to answer the door at a second's notice. It still feels very odd to walk without the swish of skirts around my ankles, and for the sleeves of the shirt to be so loose and long, but in an interesting sort of way.

I feel I shall go mad if we do not hear back from Professor Eberhart soon, Dear Reader! I must find some way to occupy myself now, as writing in this diary is clearly not enough. Perhaps I can hunt down a book. Oh! Perhaps in order to amuse us both, I might read to Mr. Miller. I shall ask him what he thinks.

_____

A pleasant couple of hours was spent in the company of a book, one full of short stories: adventures of soldiers in the war, wives waiting at home for them while sowing their Victory Gardens, and school children collecting scrap metal for bullets and the like. I do not know if they were true stories, or fictions based in fact, but all together, the tales were heartwarming and seemed to bolster my spirits a bit (though I think it would not have taken much to make me happier than I had been all day, which is to say, not happy at all).

I read aloud so Zebediah could enjoy the tales as well, though I think I must have sounded rather dull, for I noticed that he closed his eyes after the first half hour, and leaned back against the wall. Despite my boyish appearance, my voice is still very feminine-sounding, so I had to keep a low tone, as the walls in this place are embarrassingly thin. (I now know more than I ever wanted to know about our neighbours in 306! But shall not think on it further.) Perhaps the softness of my voice combined with the comfort of where he reclined on the bed and his exhaustion from the past several days caused him to doze off. I did not really mind it, however, and once I noticed he was asleep, I softened my voice even more, thinking that to stop entirely would waken him.

I was right, for moment I finished the fourth tale and paused for a few seconds, he opened his eyes and gave me a quizzical look to ask why I had stopped.

"I wanted to let you sleep," I said.

He shook his head, then gestured to the book

"All right," I agreed, and lifted it to begin reading again. He watched me for a time, where I sat on one of the hard wooden chairs which I had pulled near to the bed, then let his eyes drift closed again, but I did not stop reading until I reached the end of the book. At that point, he woke once more. I finished sewing the bag out of my black skirt, which I had started this morning, then wrote this. It is now time for supper. Still no word from the professor.

_____

We are saved! The innkeeper asked for "George" at supper tonight, his voice booming out over the din of people eating and speaking. He called the name again, yet I didn't understand that I should answer until Zebediah nudged me with his foot under the table. "Yes?" I asked, forgetting to make the pitch of my voice lower.

"Got a wire," he announced.

"I'm George Hanson," said another man across the room.

"Wire from Eber... Eberhart?" asked the innkeeper.

The other man shook his head and sat down, but I was already halfway across the room, holding my hand out eagerly for the message. I wished the innkeeper hadn't made such a fuss about it, announcing Eberhart's name and mine (though it is false) to the entire dining room, but we are gone from there now, and safe!

I am sitting at a very pretty little writing table in a room on the third story of a house in a very nice part of town. There is a feather bed behind me, which I have already tested by (scandalously) bouncing on it! I have had a long, hot bath and was put into a luxurious dressing gown while new clothes were found for me. A maid delivered a box containing a plum-coloured skirt with ruby ruffles, and a blouse of the same deep red. I also now have a nightgown, which I have not had since I slept on the Arabella. (I wore my shift to bed at the academy, and of course have slept in my clothes the past several nights). It is of the loveliest, most delicate pink lawn with satin ribbon trim. I tried on both the day clothes and the nightgown, and am wearing the latter beneath the warm dressing gown now.

Goodness, I am getting ahead of myself! Forgive me, dear reader. The wire simply informed us to go to such and such an address and ask for Mr. Troxill, which we did with all haste. As it was rather late when we arrived, we only met Mr. Troxill briefly, then were sent to our rooms to bathe and dress for bed.

He is between fifty and sixty, I think, and told us he was an old colleague of Professor Eberhart's. He received a wire from the professor about the same time we received ours; his said only that two guests were to come to his house this evening, and Professor Eberhart would be much obliged if Mr. Troxill would take care of them for a while without asking any questions. He agreed at once, trusting his friend implicitly, and prepared two of the spare rooms for our use before we even arrived.

Upon being shown into the library, where he sat with a cigar and a glass of what I think was brandy, Mr. Miller bowed and I curtseyed, forgetting myself! But the shock on Mr. Troxill's face was for another reason. "You are..." He stared at us a moment longer. "The criminals!" he cried, "On the poster!"

"Wh-what are you... are you talking about?" I asked shakily, taking a step back. Oh, I had ruined it all, I thought! "We're not--Of course we're not--"

"It is all right, my dear," he said softly, the shock melting from his face. "Eberhart has wired me, and I have sworn to take care of you both until he sends for you, or sends word of what you are to do next. Worry not."

This relieved me more than I can say, and I let out a great breath. "Thank you, sir," I managed to say. "If there is anything we can do to--"

"Now now, let us not talk of such things. You are tired, I am sure, and could do with a good rest. Let us speak in the morning; until then, do not worry about explanations, or repayment, or anything else."

I thanked him again, and then once more just before we were shown upstairs. The house is very tall and narrow, three floors with the fourth being servants' quarters, but as there are probably hundreds of houses on this street, they all must be packed tightly together. Anyway, for as small as it really is, it seems bigger, and is very comfortable.

Zebediah refused the new clothes brought to him, or so I heard from the maid who delivered my clothes. She was confused by his hand signals, so she left the box in his room and handed me a folded-up bit of parchment on which he had written, "KINDLY SEND OVER THE CLOTHES YOU HAVE BEEN WEARING. THOSE ARE GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME. I DO NOT NEED FINE THINGS, ONLY WHAT IS SERVICEABLE." I suppose he has a harder time accepting charity than I do, having worked hard for what little he has, so I sent over his trousers and shirt and hat with the maid.

And now I am alone, writing this. I cannot wait to see what the morning will bring! I am a little wary of telling Mr. Troxill all of our tale, even if Professor Eberhart trusts him. There is no use informing him of something that has no bearing on our situation now, do you not think, Dear Reader? I hope he will see it that way, too, and not press us for answers.

Off to my lovely, lovely feather bed, now!

_____

I feel rather alone. It is late, and although I am perfectly full and warm and comfortable, I have become accustomed to falling asleep with the sound of Zebediah's breathing nearby, and the feeling of his presence close to me. My little room suddenly seems vast and empty.

But there is nothing for it. We experienced an anomaly, and now things are back to normal. I suppose I shall count sheep until I fall asleep.

Gifts Remembered and Another New Look

2008-12-07T22:55:00.000-07:00

I suppose I got better rest than usual last night, or Zebediah slept more poorly than he usually did, for I woke first, which I have not done since we have been on the run. I busied myself gathering firewood, then lit it with a thought; it has become almost second nature for me now, as I have done it so often these past several days. And then it suddenly occurred to me that I was Gifted with more than fire!

After a little practice, I called water up out of the earth, enough to cup in my hands and drink. I could easily have taken handfuls of snow if I'd wanted, but I felt so silly for half-dying of thirst all this time when I could so easily (relatively speaking) have produced water from nothing! I filled my hands again, watching a little stream of water shoot up through the snow, and drank, delighted. Then I had a wicked idea.

I crouched near Zebediah, who was still asleep with his head on his arm, and caused a little fountain to spring up from the ground and fall back over to hit his face. I was aiming for his mouth, but unfortunately I have bad aim, and the water went up his nose instead! I felt terrible as he woke suddenly, spluttering and wiping at his face, but could not suppress a giggle at the sight of him. "I am sorry," I said, laughing. "Only... look." I made another little fountain, and he sat back, amazed, at the sight of it. "Drink!" I urged, and after hesitating a moment, he bent over and sipped from the stream just as if it were the tap in a kitchen.

I felt quite tired after all that exertion, which I was not used to, and Zebediah made me rest for a while before we ate and then gathered our things. I was at least able to laugh at myself for my stupidity--what trouble I could have saved us both!--but Zebediah told me to think on it no more. I never spoke to him of my lessons with Professor Eberhart, so he could not remind me of what I could do. Also, the things I had learned were not at the front of my mind since I never spoke of them. Amazing, that I could forget I can call up water, but now I think I shall not forget again.

We have taken a longer-than-usual lunch break to give me another rest from producing water. We have been out of the forest since morning, and slowly descending a great hill (or perhaps a small mountain?) toward the town. The snow fell more sparsely here, so we cannot take bites of it for refreshment; what little snow there is has fallen in a very slight dusting, like flour on a cutting board. Onward! The going is easier than Zebediah (it still seems a little strange not to call him Mr. Miller, either aloud or on paper!) thought, so we shall arrive at the edge of the city a little before nightfall.

_____

Terrible news! There are posters of the both of us displayed in all the public places of the town! They show pen and ink sketches of us both, and a very good likeness of each, too. Our names are beneath (though thankfully I am still called Greenwater) and the warning at the top reads: "Dangerous Loyalists on the Loose!" The smaller print beneath our names requests that if we are found, we are to be treated with the utmost care, but brought alive, if at all possible, to Mr. Bergstrom in Franklin Bay. Barring that, we are to be held at the police station wherever we are captured, and Mr. Bergstrom notified. Mr. M--Zebediah is called a "Deadly Assassin with Unparalleled Weapons Skills" and I am supposedly an "Unstable Young Woman Gifted with a Trace of Illumination"!

As silly as it sounds, I took the most offense at being said to have a "trace" of Illumination, upon first sight of the poster! Then Zebediah yanked me back out of the post office and down a narrow side street, out of view of anyone on the main road. "What are we to do?" I wailed quietly. We were in the shadow between two tall buildings, and therefore it was more freezing than usual. I had been so looking forward to a soft bed and warm food at an inn tonight, but that was impossible if we were now known as murderous traitors!

Zebediah was deep in thought for a minute, while I bit at my thumbnail from nervousness. Then he pulled some things from his bag and handed them to me; they were his new pair of trousers and his new shirt! "What are these for?" I asked, uncomprehending, and handed them back. "You'll look just the same if you're wearing clean clothes."

He shook his head and pushed the clothes at me again. When I still did not understand, he tugged at the collar of my coat, then pulled at the cuff of my glove as though he would remove it. "You want me to.... What? No, no no, I cannot!" I cried, suddenly realizing what he wanted. "Where am I to change, anyway? Here?"

A slow nod was my answer.

"And what about this?" I asked, gesturing to my hair which was messily pinned up at the back of my head. Half a yard of thick mahogany hair would be difficult to disguise, I thought.

In reply, he took his own short-brimmed cap off his head and handed it to me, then hunted through some of the pockets in his trousers before coming up with what looked to be a spare neck cloth. He tied it around his head as some laborers do, to keep the coal dust off their hair if they are miners, or the sawdust if they work in a mill (though he had no hair at all). In addition, he arranged his neck cloth with the knot and tails in the back, so a bit of his chest was visible at the top of his shirt where it made a V, and this made him look more like the normal working man one might see on the street Then he shooed me further down the little alley.

"There is no privacy!" I hissed, clutching the clothes against my chest as if my modesty was already in jeopardy. "Anyway, what will be gained by me dressing like you?"

He told me I was to write to Professor Eberhart, then return to the post office to send the wire.

"And then what?"

Then we find lodging, he said, pointing at me and himself, then pretending to eat and sleep.

"And wait for a reply? How will the professor know where to send it?" Before he could reply, I answered my own question. "We must acquire lodging first, then send the wire with directions on where to direct a reply."

Zebediah accepted this plan with a nod, then guided me behind several large trash bins. The stench was awful even in the cold, but I dared not stray too far from them. My only shelter from prying eyes at the other end of the alley was Zebediah himself, standing with his back to me, his legs planted far apart and arms akimbo to give me as much cover as possible.

Hoping and praying that no one would traverse this particular road for the next few minutes, or even look down it, I did my best to change into Zebediah's clothes while exposing the least amount of skin possible. I put the trousers on while I still wore my skirt and petticoat, then tugged both off, all the while trying to keep my feet in my boots and not on the dirty, wet ground. I stuffed my skirt and petticoat in my bag, thinking how very odd it was to feel so unhindered by yards of fabric! Then I turned my back to Zebediah and unbuttoned my coat and blouse. My back still to him, looking over my shoulder, I tapped my coat against his arm so he would take it. Our eyes locked for an instant as he started to turn around, then he took my coat and hurriedly faced front again.

I crouched behind the garbage bins as I removed my blouse, thinking I would die of cold before I was properly dressed again. Only once I had Zebediah's shirt nearly buttoned did it occur to me that a particular thing--or rather, two things--might blow my cover, so I removed the shirt again and laced my stays as tightly as I could up top. Luckily I am not overly-endowed as some women are, rather more medium, and once my coat was on I thought it would be hardly noticeable. I stood up to tuck in the shirt, then refastened the trousers and tapped Zebediah on the shoulder.

He waited a moment, then turned around slowly, in case it was a mistake like the last time. But once he was facing me, his eyes traveled down and up, then down again. "Well?" I prompted, feeling like a slide of something interesting being examined beneath a microscope.

He blinked a couple of times, then nodded approvingly and handed my coat back to me; luckily it was of a straight cut with no details to mark it as decidedly feminine, so it would do. My boots, too, were unremarkable, except perhaps in how scuffed up they were.

"Oh dear," I said suddenly, catching the waistband of the trousers as they started to slide over my hips. "Um." I looked up at Zebediah pleadingly.

He was already removing his own belt, but once I threaded it through all the belt loops on the trousers I wore, I realized there was not a hole in it that could make it small enough for my waist. Before I could remove it, Zebediah stopped me, studied it a moment, then asked for it back. He put it against the brick wall of the building and gouged a hole in it with the tip of a small pocket knife (not the larger horror he had drawn on the stranger in the forest). Once I put it back on, it fit quite well.

"Now this," I said as I began unpinning my hair. I found out it would not stay beneath the cap on its own, so I ended up re-pinning it at the crown of my head, making use of many twists to compact it as much as possible. The hat still seems rather "full," but as it is a little big on me, it is not too noticeable.

It was getting late by the time I had finished, so we found a room at the nearest inn which we could afford, then hurriedly wrote to Professor Eberhart so we could send the wire before the post office closed. It was difficult to invent something in code but not obviously a code, yet easy for him to understand without being easy for others to decode. In the end, it said something similar to this:

"Thank you for the gift Stop I buried it in the garden as per your instructions Stop Please send further directions by wire to room 308 at White Mare in Benson Stop Look forward to seeing you soon Stop Your friend Pause George"

The "gift" is my illumination, and burying it in the garden refers to my surname, of course. George is my father's name, which I hope will spark a memory for him. It is a common enough name that even if the message is intercepted, it will likely be thought merely a thank-you note for an apple tree or somesuch.

(One reassuring thing which I have just thought to mention is that to the best of Zebediah's knowledge, Belleclaire did not know my true surname or anything of my parents. The name given in his log book was "Bernice Greenwater," so any mention of a garden should go unnoticed. Belleclaire seemed to be merely following directions, and hadn't asked Bergstrom for details.)

I kept the brim of my hat pulled low over my eyes when I spoke to the innkeeper and the man at the post office, and tried to make my voice a little lower. I refrained from speaking any slang like a true street boy would, however, afraid I would mangle it and give myself away. I mumbled as much as possible, and while that made each of the men ask me to repeat myself several times, I think it made them angry at me so they would not consider how I looked. If anyone happens to ask and I cannot avoid answering, I am George Smithy, and I and my brother, Malcom, are on our way to Madison, as we heard there was work there. Though as I said, I shall try to avoid speaking to anyone as much as I can.

The wire has been sent and we are holed up in our room, now. We both ate so much at supper that we have stomach aches, but I have never been more thankful for a hurting gut. I am finally full, and WARM! Oh, how wonderful to be warm again! I wish I could put on my own comfortable clothes, but must stay in disguise in case the door must be answered for the delivery of a message.

After everything he has been through, I have refused to let Zebediah sleep on the floor tonight; he shall sleep in the bed and I shall take the chair, either leaning back against the wall, or laying my head on my folded arms across the top of the small table. I do not think I could stand to sleep on the floor after spending so many nights in a row on the rocky ground. For one instant, I thought of sharing the bed with him, as it is just big enough for two, but that would be highly inappropriate. Thinking back on our past intimacies, I have resolved not to let my heart get the better of me, for that way lies only pain. I am sure Zebediah and I must part soon enough, whether it is so I can help my country with my Gift, or he finds some other employment, or anything else. This cannot last, so there is no good longing for things that cannot be, no matter how it may hurt to admit that to myself.

Now we have only to wait for a reply from Professor Eberhart, and I do hope he can tell us somewhere safe to go or, better yet, that it is safe to return to the academy. I do not know if he has seen the posters yet, but with two "dangerous criminals" on the loose, I cannot imagine the schools in the area would not be notified.

Cannot keep awake to write another word, goodnight!

Hand Speech and Shabby Shelters

2008-12-07T00:27:00.000-07:00

It began to snow this morning, tiny, light flakes, and has continued all day. I do not know what we shall do tonight when we set up our little camp. I do not like the idea of waking up covered in a mound of snow, having it soak into my clothes and freeze me. While we are moving, it is not so bad, but sitting here writing this during our mid-day "meal" (as much as a stale roll and some very old, hard cheese can be called a meal), snow is already starting to cover me.

Speaking of our meals, we have indeed been living on the sack full of bread our last hostess provided to us. The apples were gone as of the day before yesterday, and today will see the last of the cheese. (Bless that good woman for her charity. I am sure she gave it to us against her husband's wishes, just as she insisted we sleep in the attic instead of the tool shed. She knew we had nothing, thinking we had been robbed, and gave of what little she had to total strangers. Though rolls and apples and cheese is not much, it is far more than the nothing we would have had if not for her, so I should not complain.) Thankfully, tomorrow evening we will be in town once more, and able to buy real food.

As for drinking, we have had naught but water a couple of times a day, and that but scarcely. Occasionally we come across a little stream, and there we drink as much as we can hold, for we know not when we shall next find water. If we can, we follow the stream for a time, though in order to take the most direct path to the city, we must soon diverge from it. Once we sipped old rain water from a basin-shaped rock, but it tasted of dirt and mold, and was probably not safe, so we took no more than our initial taste. I say again I will be so very glad to be able to go into a kitchen or water closet and merely turn on the tap for as much clean, fresh water as I want.

Enough complaining. Time to brush the snow from my coat and hair, and get on our way.

_____

To keep ourselves amused (and moving) this afternoon, Mr. Miller and I worked on more hand speech. It would look very odd, I think, to anyone watching, but we make sense to each other. We now have hand words for snow, clouds, rain, trees, ground... anything we have been seeing for the past several days, really. The academy is a "roof" made over the head with both hands. "Town" is a horizontal circle made by waving the outstretched hand at about chest height.

Other words are harder. Objects and people and places are easy, because one can mime the action a thing is used for, or "draw" something in the air that is reminiscent about the thing, but words like "when" and "arrive" are more difficult, though the context of our conversations usually means we can do without such words. For example, Mr. Miller pointed to me, then himself, then made the "town" motion to mean, "When we arrive in town." He went on to pretend to eat and drink while nodding heartily, the "yes" meaning he would be glad to do those things. I very heartily agree.

There are some things he still must spell, though half the time we come up with a hand word for the thing on the spot. For the rest, however, he has taken to asking for my hand, then spelling the word on my palm. It seems very intimate to me, but we have no other way of communicating unless we stop and I take out my diary and pen from inside my case, which is inside my bag, which is too inconvenient. He is my dearest friend right now, and anyway, who is to see us?

We are currently huddled under a rather odd shelter right now. Mr. Miller took several fallen branches and leaned them against the trunks of a couple of trees that grow close together, then piled smaller sticks across it, tying it here and there with bits of the twine from his pocket. He then piled handfuls of dead leaves atop all of them, making sure to stuff them especially in the cracks between sticks. It took quite some time, but as we reached our "campsite" near the edge of the forest with two full hours of sunlight left, it was all right. I did try to help, but as I was not sure how he meant to do what he meant to do, I could not be of much assistance. Instead, I gathered firewood, and any branches that looked like they might be useful to his building project.

Now it is dark, and snowing rather heavily, and we are feeding a very miniscule fire with a little pile of twigs nearby. It is thankfully producing very little smoke, and what smoke there is dissipates up near the "roof" anyway. I am a little afraid of the whole structure catching fire in the middle of the night, but Mr. Miller has assured me it will not be so, and anyway, we are still taking watches, just in case. For a time, I sat hunched over with my back against a tree trunk, but that became too uncomfortable, so now I have tucked myself in the shallowest end facing the fire in the middle, and Mr. Miller is lying across the fire from me. I am still cold almost to my bones, and I feel filthy and smelly, and the ground is hard, but somehow this seems... cozy, almost.

_____

It is my watch, now. Before I fell asleep (Mr. Miller always takes the first watch) we talked for a while. I told him about dearest Maggie and all the little adventures we had together. I described Saint Anne's to him, from the cellar with the dirt floor, to the dormitory at the very top and the windows I would climb out of to sit on the eaves. He looked surprised at that, after how I had behaved on the Erebos, but then I explained to him how my fear of heights was feigned on the ship, and why, and he smiled. "IMPRESSIVE," he wrote on my palm.

"Not really," I said, blushing, and tried to pull my hand back, but I could not. Mr. Miller kept it between both his own. Our eyes locked for a long moment. I was not sure what to think. As often as he had touched my hands today to spell things out for me, this seemed different. A little thrill of warmth shot through my body, like the feeling I got when our fingers brushed as we shared the bag of almonds on the omnibus, what seems like ages ago now.

He wore, as always, his old white fingerless gloves. They were stained with brown dried blood, and his knuckles were still healing from the fight. His fingernails were short, with dirt build up around the edges. It did not look like a gentleman's hand at all. But he had never been anything but a gentleman to me. True, he was rather cold to begin with when I met him on the Erebos, but I was a captive and it was only to be expected. As soon as I showed him the slightest kindness, however, he returned it back to me tenfold, sharing my meals with me, accompanying me on our walks, and planning to rescue me if we had indeed landed in Franklin Bay. He has been my protector, my companion, my friend. If not for him, I would have turned myself in to Belleclaire and his men at the academy when I saw them; I could not survive this on my own!

I suppose the thought of it all became too much to bear, for my eyes filled with tears. When he showed concern, however, I smiled. "Forgive me," I whispered. "It is only... I do not know what I would do without you. You have been a better friend than I could ever hope to ask for, Mr. Miller."

He stared intently at me for a minute, then he lifted his hand to write on my palm, through the fabric of my dirty, torn white glove. "Z-E-B," he wrote, before I understood. "E-D-I-A-H," he finished, and I whispered his name. He smiled, more with his eyes than anything, and his mouth said "Bernice." Neither of us moved our hands from where they had become entwined.

There was nothing further to be said after that. And, Dear Reader, I must admit that I was a little glad the tiny fire was between us. I wanted warmth and comfort and closeness in a way I have never wanted it before, and so it was well that we could not lie any closer than we were.

However, the fire later proved to be a problem. I think I fell asleep holding his hand and must have unconsciously moved toward him, for I woke to the smell of smoke and something hitting my stomach. I seemed to have rolled into the fire and singed my coat, and Zebediah was trying to put it out! The shock of it forced me to recoil backwards, and in doing so, I hit the edge of our little structure and most of it clattered down on top of us!

For a moment, all was quiet. Then a stick fell from where it had been teetering precariously atop the pile of branches, and I laughed once, loudly, into the still night. And again, and then again, until I could not stop laughing. Of all the idiotic, clumsy things to do! I lay on my back, a branch pinning my arm across my chest, and thinking what a sight I must have been, asleep and on fire, and laughed and laughed. It seemed Mr. Mill--Zebediah was coughing, after a moment, but when I managed to turn my head and look at him through the tumble of sticks and leaves, he was grinning, his eyes squinted shut. The coughing sound was his laughter, as his throat could not produce the usual sound.

Once we had recovered, our hysterics having died off into giggles, then smiles, we helped each other up and hastily cleared off the branches and things, wincing as we discovered bruises where the branches had hit us. The snow had stopped while I was asleep, and the sky was mostly clear, so there seemed no point in rebuilding it. I lit the fire again, and piled some of the fallen sticks nearby for fuel. "Go to sleep," I urged Zebediah once we were settled. "I'll try not to incinerate myself again." Smiling, he lay his head down on his arm and closed his eyes.

My watch is nearly over now, though I am loathe to wake Zebediah. The sun should be rising in a few more hours, and the fire is not doing much to keep us warm, anyway. I will let it die out, then get another bit of sleep myself.

Exhaustion and Low Spirits

2008-12-05T21:13:00.001-07:00

I am tired. I am tired of being tired. I am tired of my feet aching. I am tired of my back hurting. I am tired of carrying my stupid bag and my even stupider (and heavier) case with my talbotype and my sewing kit and my toiletries, none of which I can use out in the wilderness. I am tired of my hair looking (and probably smelling) like a bird's nest. I am tired of never washing my face, especially since I felt a very nasty spot begin to form on my chin this morning.

I AM TIRED OF BEING COLD. So very, very tired of being cold.

I am tired of "using the facilities" in the great outdoors. They never speak of this in adventure novels, nor mention it in the pictures, oh no. But it is a reality. Nature calls when you are out in nature, and it is one of the most degrading, uncomfortable things I have ever experienced. I shall not even go into much detail here, but I feel obligated to mention it, while I am listing my woes.

Dry leaves are the worst sort of "paper" imaginable. The crumbly nature presents several problems, which I am sure you can imagine, Dear Reader. Added to that discomfort is the fact that Mr. Miller can hear everything going on behind the bushes I step behind, and vice versa. I will say, however, that my thigh muscles have grown much stronger in the last several days.

Moving on: I have had a constant headache since we have been on the run. When I complained of this to Mr. Miller some days back, he pointed at my head, then mimed the way I drink coffee, my saucer held by the edges in my left hand, and the littlest finger of my right hand very slightly raised as I sip from my cup. Apparently I had become too accustomed to drinking coffee morning, noon, and night, and its sudden absence from my diet is affecting my head badly. I am not quite sure why, but I do believe him, as I have been feeling it.

Did I mention I am tired of the cold?

Tomorrow afternoon, we should be coming to the edge of the forest; that is, if Mr. Miller has steered us straight. We shall camp there for the night, then make the nearly day-long trek into the next town in the morning. Hopefully we can find shelter there, and oh, how wondrous it will feel to be clean, and to sleep in a real bed! To have running water, and toilets, and coffee! There are some moments when I am so low that the only thing which forces me to put one foot in front of the other again and again is the thought of a chair by a fire, and fragrant cup in my hands, warming me to the core.

Lunch is over, and on we must go. I intend to get a message to Professor Eberhart when we reach town, probably by post. I wonder if I could arrange it so there is no "from" stamp on the envelope; if Belleclaire or one of his men are still at the school, I would hate for them to find out where we are after all we have done to evade them.

(I feel I ought to add that things between Mr. Miller and myself are now mended. If I ever speak ill of him, even in my thoughts, it is because I am a bad mood, and I know it is not right or fair. He did what he had to do the other night; I understand that. It was terrible and frightening and nightmare-inducing--yes, I have been sleeping more poorly than usual since then--but necessary. I literally owe him my life now, and what greater thing can a friend ask of another friend?)

Lives Saved and Many Tears Shed

2008-12-04T23:03:00.001-07:00

Today's entry is not for the faint of heart, Dear Reader. I think I am, myself, rather faint of heart, yet I experienced all I shall tell of, and have survived to see the other side of it. Bear up with me then, if you so desire, and we shall live it together.

Mr. Miller woke me last night after I am not sure how long. I felt a little rested, but not fully, by any means. Still, I had said I would take watch for part of the night, and so I sat up and resigned myself to lots of pinches to stay awake. He lay down near me, but far enough away for propriety, and he must have been exhausted, for I heard his breathing deepen and slow after only a few minutes.

Very soon, I had terrified myself into thinking that every tiny rustle of a leaf or tap of a twig was a bear come to eat us or someone come to murder us, but I could not wake Mr. Miller for company and comfort; I just had to endure it. And so I did, for more than an hour by the hands of my pocket watch. I held it in my gloved hands and watch the second hand tick around, at times pretending the sound was a heartbeat. I do not know why, but it was a rather comforting thought.

Mr. Miller had left his pistol loaded and ready at my side, and had shown me how to draw the hammer back and shoot it (though I only pretended to pull the trigger, as it would be foolish to waste shot and powder). This lay also at my side, and, Dear Reader, I unfortunately did have to use it.

I suppose it was my own fault, really. When I did at last hear actual footsteps sneaking over the thick blanket of dead leaves and pine needles, I thought it was just another part of my imagination set to scare me, and dismissed it until it was too late. By the time I saw the dark shape in the trees when I looked over my shoulder, there was no time to wake Mr. Miller so he could defend me, and I grabbed for the pistol and fired wildly in the direction of the shape, shouting "Help!"

I am sure Mr. Miller only heard the pistol, however, for he was on his feet seemingly in an instant. The figure rushed at us and I screamed, covering my head with my arms. Mr. Miller was behind me and a little to one side of the fire, so when the other man fired his own pistol, I could not see where or if he struck Mr. Miller. I screamed and scrambled out of the way on all fours as I could not stand up quickly enough, and by the time I was able to turn around, still on the ground on my knees, the stranger and my friend had clashed together. (I do remember feeling relief that Mr. Miller had not been struck by the pistol shot, though the relief was faint and lay beyond a great gulf of fear.)

Terrified and unable to move, I watched the fight that was, literally, for our lives. Mr. Miller got in several good (as in effective) punches to the other man's head and neck, but then the stranger hit Mr. Miller in the middle of the stomach, causing him to double over and stumble back. He tripped and landed hard on his back, and then the low flames of the fire blocked him from my view. The other man came up beside him and kicked him hard in the ribs and gut three or four times, then there was a flash of silver and the man flailed backwards, crying out. The handle of a knife was embedded in his thigh, and while the other man was caught off-guard, Mr. Miller got to his feet and threw another punch at the side of the man's face.

Both of them were dirty and bloody by this point, though half the stranger's face was covered in blood , as well as his leg where the knife was stuck, and Mr. Miller was only bleeding from a small wound on the back of his head where his skull had struck a rock when he fell. I got to my feet, but stayed well enough back, almost to the trees at the edge of the small clearing where we camped. If I had been thinking at the time, I would have been alert for other intruders in case our attacker had brought friends, but of course I could think of nothing but what was going on in front of me.

Reeling from the punch and the knife in his leg, the stranger stumbled backwards and this time it was he who tripped and fell back. Mr. Miller was upon him the next second, kneeling over him and landing blow after blow to his face. I could not bear to watch, but I couldn't bear to not watch, either, and so I didn't turn away though it was horrible to see. The man's face was soon covered in blood, as were Mr. Miller's hands. Flecks of blood dotted the front of his coat, too, and the neck cloth he always wore, even in sleep, now.

Then there was suddenly another flash of metal as the stranger managed to get his own knife out. He slashed at Mr. Miller, though wildly, and Mr. Miller had only to lean to one side to evade it. He grabbed the man's hand and beat it several times on the ground, but the stranger would not let go. It became a contest of wills for a long, agonizing moment, with Mr. Miller trying to point the blade away from his own throat while the stranger tried to force it at him. Finally Mr. Miller let go, rolling off to the side. He was on his feet quicker than I thought possible, and charged at the other man, who was only halfway up by that point. They crashed into a leafless bush, struggled a moment, then rolled out and onto the ground. The stranger still had the knife in his leg, and had dropped his own blade.

What happened next still makes me sick to write of it, but I must, having written the tale thus far. The other man was weakened by loss of blood and multiple blows to the head, so it was relatively easy work for Mr. Miller to practically lie on top of him and punch him several more times. Then he yanked the knife from the stranger's leg, making him cry out in agony, turned him onto his side, then got behind him and brutally slit his throat. Blood flew everywhere, soaking the ground nearby and splattering the trunks of the nearest trees at the edge of the clearing. I gasped and looked away after only an instant, yet the image is burned into my mind forever. I wish so much to forget it, but I cannot.

I know I did not swoon, but I do not remember the next couple of minutes. The next thing I have a specific memory of is retching behind a bush. It felt like a stone sat heavily in my stomach when I was through, and I spat several times, hating myself, hating the world, hating our attacker and even Mr. Miller, for the violence he displayed. When I turned around, there he was, his pale face and white clothing flecked with already-drying blood, his eyes wide, hands outstretched to me. He took a step forward but I recoiled back from him, seeing the blood on his hands (though I think most of it must have been his own, from his torn-up knuckles) and remembering the terrifying look of determination on his face as he slashed his knife across the other man's throat.

I have not said a word to him since then, and it is late afternoon now. We did not sleep any of the rest of that awful night, but packed up and trudged through the dawn, eating a meager breakfast as we walked. (We still have some rolls from our previous hostess, and ate some of them plus a couple of apples for a brief lunch later on.) We have already stopped for the night, though there is still another hour of sunlight left. I suppose since our tracker is dead, there is not as much need to hurry as before.

We left him in the forest. Mr. Miller dragged him deep into a thicket and piled fallen branches and dead leaves atop him so he was hidden from sight unless one looked very closely. I had a vague recollection of seeing him on the Erebos twice or thrice, briefly. He was a former fellow crewmember of Mr. Miller, perhaps even a one-time friend. But now he is dead, by Mr. Miller's own hand. I knew before this that he was a murderer, that he had killed people, and they had not always even been bad people. But seeing it firsthand, smelling the sickening tang of blood in the air, has changed my view of him forever.

_____

It is very late now, and I write this crookedly by the dim light of another fire I have lit. I could not sleep, though I lay and shivered for a long time. At length, I sat up, then stood and paced a while to get my blood moving again. I felt Mr. Miller's eyes on me as I walked back and forth, but did not look at him. As I paced, I relived the terrible events of last night again and again. I saw the awful, calm, deadly look in Mr. Miller's eyes as he fought the man, saw the blood spatter against the trees, and the pure horror in the man's gaze as he choked out his last breath. I began to take quick, short breaths, panicking though the danger had long since passed. Before I knew it, I was crying. I sank down to my knees a little ways from the fire and sobbed, my head in my hands, rocking back and forth.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and the presence of Mr. Miller as he knelt next to me. I felt fingertips on my wrist, fluttering there, unsure. And even though he was the cause of my upset, I let him try and comfort me. He was and is all I have, and despite his terrible act, he did save my life. Shoulders shaking, face contorted with tears, I leaned into him awkwardly, both of us kneeling on the forest floor. His arms went around me, and the shoulder of his woolen coat cooled my hot cheeks as I lay my face against it.

When I could not shed another tear for exhaustion, he helped me up, then I leaned on his arm as he walked me back toward the fire. I lay down, my head on my bag, and soon enough I fell asleep. When I woke not long ago, he was still up, sitting near me so that I saw his face the instant I opened my eyes. He is sleeping now, though it took some convincing to get him to do so.

Tomorrow is a new day. I must not dwell on the past, but look forward. Someday all of this will be over, and I hope I will be stronger and wiser for it.

Still No Plan and Keeping Watch

2008-12-04T00:40:00.000-07:00

More running today. That is what we are doing, really, running away from the academy. We took the road back toward the first little village early this morning to further confuse any possible trackers, but then cut into the forest again to go deeper into it than before. We have stopped for lunch now, with some rolls and cheese our hostess sent with us when we left.

I do not like this, and not just because of the discomfort and hardship. I do not like lying to strangers, moreover strangers that are kind to us. And I do not like that we are running. It feels cowardly, not at all noble. I almost feel as though we should return to Reliance, but Mr. Miller made a good point, I suppose, when I told him so. "Belleclaire or any of his crew would not be able to take either of us against our will. It is against the law!" I said, sure of my convictions. I would not board the Royal Erebos but with a gun at my back, and surely the law would be called if that were the case.

"JUST BECAUSE IT IS AGAINST THE LAW," Mr. Miller wrote in a clear patch of ground, "DOES NOT MEAN THEY WOULD NOT DO IT."

I had not thought of it that way, though of course he is right. They are a mercenary crew, and as Mr. Miller spent three years with them, he would know how they operate, what laws they do and do not obey, and at what times they do one or the other. I cannot bear the thought of another battle, though I hardly think professors and young students could or would put up much of a fight at all against seasoned airship pirates. I would hate for anyone else to be hurt or, heavens forbid, killed because of me. Sometimes I think it may be too late; they could have tortured Professor Eberhart for information about me, they could have burned the school looking for me, or torn apart the town.

But then Mr. Miller allays my fears, dismissing them (though kindly) as too dramatic. Belleclaire and his crew do not want to draw attention to themselves, he says. They want, ideally, to get me back and deliver me as they promised to Mr. Bergstrom, that is all. And, although he will not say it, I know they want retribution from Mr. Miller for deserting them and helping me. I cannot think too long on that, however, or I become very upset. I do not even wish to write of it.

We must go, now. I can tell Mr. Miller is interested in my diary, as he watches me intently whenever I write, but I know I can trust him and needn't worry about my privacy. Anyway, I have my diary always tucked into the inner pocket of my coat.

_____

We are heading north, away from the academy but also away from Franklin Bay and Mr. Bergstrom. Right now, this is all the more of a plan we have: to get away. But I think we really must have some destination in mind, or at the very least, find some way to contact Professor Eberhart and either ask for assistance, or a letter recommending us to some friend that can provide us safe shelter for a time. This near-mindless fleeing is not becoming of a lady or a gentleman (though I hardly feel like a lady now, covered in dirt and frozen to the core.)

However, it is time to rest, soon. I have once again managed to produce fire on some dry tinder: fallen needles from trees, and a handful of chips of bark, which I helped to gather along with Mr. Miller, though he did the most of the actual wood-gathering (which was quite difficult without the use of a proper axe--he took fallen branches and broke them with his hands or by stepping on them, and some he could tear off of dead trees). I have insisted on sitting up and keeping watch at least part of the night, and have made him swear to wake me when he grows too tired to sit up and feed the fire. I do hope he shall wake me, but if he does drop off, the fire will go out, and we will both wake from cold. I hope he is sensible about this. As I said, I hardly feel like a lady, and this is neither the time nor the place for excessive chivalry. We both must do what we can to support one another.

No amount of pleading or threatening, however, managed to make him agree to let me take the first watch while he rested, so I am preparing to lie down as near the fire as I dare, my coat and gloves still on, my head resting on new bag as a pillow. Sleep will come swiftly, I am sure, brought on by consuming lots of fresh air, and doing lots of walking. Perhaps if I am tired when Mr. Miller wakes me (as I am almost sure I will be), I shall write more here to keep alert.

Charity Accepted and A New Accessory

2008-12-02T22:42:00.000-07:00

We are to eat breakfast here at the inn this morning, then go on our way again, though I am not sure where. Mr. Miller is apparently somewhat familiar with the area, and says there is another village half a day's walk from here. We shall not reach it in half a day, however, as we are taking a rather odd route there.

The road winds around one branch of the forest (ha ha, clever wordplay--oh my, I am still tired, if such things amuse me) and into this village, but we shall only go down the road for a while to make the people here think we are taking it around, in case we are being followed and anyone here is questioned about us, then cut off the road and through that part of the forest to approach the village from another direction. As I understand it, it looks somewhat like this:

Oh my, that was terrible. No one ever did praise my drawing skills, though.

It looks as though it would be quicker to cut straight through the forest, yes? But it is not so, for the going is harder through the woods, with softer ground covered in dead leaves, and brambles and fallen branches to slow us as well. I am relying on Mr. Miller very much, in that I would have no idea how to keep a straight course and come out in at all the right place.

We must pack up and go soon. I am very much not looking forward to going out into the cold again, but at least I am clean and in better traveling clothes, now. I shall fold up the waistband of my skirt a little and hope that it will not catch on thorns and branches so bad as my black one did. As we will be traveling in daylight this time, and not stumbling around in the dark, I hope the going will be easier on my clothes as well as my body. Farewell until tonight, I think.

_____

We're settled for the night again, though this time in the attic of someone's house. This village is even tinier than the last, and has no inn, so we were forced to ask for shelter wherever we could. I was terribly nervous walking up to the first house on the edge of town, but I told the maid that answered the door same story of my "husband" and I being robbed on the highway on our way to stay with relatives in a town Mr. Miller had written for me in the dust at the edge of the forest. We went by Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter this time, to be on the safe side. I said my husband had been ill and lost his voice but for a whisper, but would gladly do whatever work the master of the house deemed fit in exchange for supper and a place to sleep tonight.

The maid disappeared for a while, leaving Mr. Miller and I to stand anxiously in the fading twilight, but then returned and invited us in. I helped the girl prepare supper while Mr. Miller chopped wood until, as I saw later, his hands blistered. Then we ate a simple meal consisting mainly of potatoes dug from the little back garden, with a little stringy meat, some wooden-tasting carrots, and warm, crusty bread rolls with freshly-made butter, which was the best part. Actually, as neither of us had eaten since breakfast, it was all delicious at the time.

We are now huddled under the eaves of the house amongst broken furniture and dusty boxes, and have been allotted a lumpy mattress and a few blankets, which we have dragged near the chimney to soak up any lingering warmth from the fire below. Mr. Miller has again insisted I take the "bed," such as it is, and has laid down on the floor between the door and me. This means he is further from the chimney, but he "told" me with a combination of hand speak and finger spelling that it did not put off that much warmth, anyway, and he did not mind it. I can't imagine how I could ever repay him for all the care and kindness he has shown me, especially the last few days.

As we were making supper, the maid told me that the master wanted to put us in the tool shed outside, but mistress insisted we be given the attic room since it was so cold at night, now. I made sure to thank her privately when her husband was out of the room. She smiled and said they, too, had once been newlyweds and trying to scratch out a living without starving or freezing. She patted my cheek and said I had caught a handsome young man, which made me blush.

I must rest now, in preparation for still more walking tomorrow. I am sore all over, but Mr. Miller must feel worse, having slept on floorboards last night and the cold ground the night before, so I shan't complain.

Oh, and I did make the black skirt into a bag, though hastily as I did not have time to sew. I knotted the waist end of it with a scrap torn from the bottom, then tied a sort of strap onto it with some twine from Mr. Miller's pocket. I shall do it up right when we have some time to rest when I may sew. Tonight I was too tired, and the lamplight in the attic too poor. Goodnight.

Semi-comfortable Accommodations and A Disgraceful WC

2008-12-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

Still in the forest. Daytime, sunlight, resting. Could not sleep for cold and fear, so walked most of night. Hour or two before dawn, could not keep eyes open and self upright; Mr. Miller let me sleep a while, then we continued. About noon now. Hungry, tired. Hands very cold, difficult to write. Something comforting about it, though.

On we go.

_____

Thank whatever fates led us here! I am feeling much better with a full stomach and a warm body. We have dined at an inn, and secured a room under the names Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Over our hearty supper (watery beef stew and bitter coffee never tasted so good!), Mr. Miller communicated to me that a mute man would be memorable if Belleclaire's men came looking for us, so he pretended to be ill so that I could make the arrangements for our room. I said we were on our way to visit relatives, but had been robbed on the road on our way here, left with little but our clothes and our lives. The innkeeper didn't seem terribly interested in my lies, and I hope he will not remember our faces.

I am in our room now, and Mr. Miller has gone back downstairs to give me time to straighten up. My hair is a disaster and my lovely wool coat is filthy. If nothing can be done for my clothes, I can at least clean my body. There are two communal water closets at the end of the hall, one for men and one for women. Off I go.

_____

Oh, my! I thought nothing of sharing a water closet at first, as I had known nothing else all my life, but a handful of nice young orphan girls treats their personal WC entirely differently than do a bunch of ill-bred, messy, strangers treat the communal water closet in an inn! What a disgrace it was! And shame on the management, for letting it remain in such a state! I hurried as much as I was able and dashed back to our room with my wet hair trailing down my back. Ugh! I am dry and dressed now, however, in my new skirt and one of my new blouses. I am not sure anything can be done for my fine clothes. The blouse and waistcoat are not in a bad way, but the bottom of the skirt is torn in several places, and filthy from tromping through the woods for a night and a day.

I shall not think of the loss, however, even if they were some of the finest things I had ever owned. I must be practical. It would not be well for a destitute traveling "newlywed" woman to wear such finery, so I must hide it away Perhaps I can make the skirt into a bag with straps, in order to carry our things in and make our travel easier. Yes, I must think of it like that. I have even got my little sewing kit with me, since I brought my carry-on case into town. And now, to continue my tale (and distract myself):

This morning when I woke very early, the sun was just rising, turning everything grey instead of black, and bringing the creeping fog. I ached all over, and my throat was painfully dry. More than anything, though, I was cold. It took me several minutes to even sit up, and then several more to stretch my agonized muscles enough to stand, with Mr. Miller's help. He did not look as though he had slept at all, and I did not ask him if he had. As we walked in silence, the sky turned gradually pink, then gold, then the usual cover of clouds was visible. Minutes seemed like hours, or hours like minutes; it varied. The first time I noticed any change was when I realized actual sunlight was striking my face, through the branches of the trees overhead. I felt a little better then, and seemed to awaken a little more.

In the middle of the afternoon, we at last reached the edge of the forest, and could see a village at the bottom of the hill we stood upon. Hope did spring up in us both, then, and we hurried as best we could, aching and stiff and still half-frozen. I probably had leaves in my hair and dirt on my face, but I didn't care. Food and fire were within our reach now!

Ahh, Mr. Miller has returned and would like the room for a while. I shall go downstairs.

_____

Back in our room again. I was terrified of being recognized in the parlour, not knowing if there could be spies among the other guests, or really what to think at all! I sat in a dark corner too far from the fire to be comfortable, and pretended to read the first book I picked up from the meager collection on a shelf, which happened to be a collection of dreadful horror stories. Very glad to be here and safe and alone. Well, not entirely alone.

It does feel a little odd, sharing a room with Mr. Miller, but he has made a sort of nest on the floor with a blanket and his spare clothes, leaving me the bed, and there is nothing else for it. It is cheaper, for one thing, and we do not know how long we shall have to make what money we have last. (I am so glad I did not remove my spare cash from my petticoat! I have informed Mr. Miller of it, and he looked terribly relieved when he heard.)

Right now we have no plan but to get as far away from the Eastern Madison Academy as possible, and as quickly as we can. Right now, we are both so very exhausted neither of us can think straight. I think I hear Mr. Miller's breathing deepen and slow, and I should sleep as well. Goodnight, Dear Reader, and I do hope tomorrow will be a better day!

AUTHOR POST: Poll time!

2008-12-01T00:34:00.005-07:00

I realize that I don't know many of you who read this blog. You found it through another website, perhaps, or maybe a friend told you about it. But even if you don't know me and I don't know you, I'd still really appreciate hearing from you concerning this project of mine. It's been a fun month full of challenges, and I learned a lot about my writing and what I can and can't do. I'm going to continue this story past November, though I've won the NaNoWriMo challenge of writing at least 50,000 words of this "novel" in 30 days.

Now I need your feedback as to how to continue this undertaking. Please be completely honest; I can't see who votes for what, and I'm trusting everyone to only vote once. If you have anything else to add, please leave me a comment to this post! In fact, Bernice would love to read your comments to her entries, as well! Sometimes she even comments back. Make this a community thing, if you'd like. Feel free to ask questions and air concerns, posture guesses as to what happened or will happen and point things out. This is all for fun! (I'm certainly not doing it for monetary profit!) So have fun with it!

Thanks, and go vote below!

Thanks again for taking the time to give me some feedback!

Shopping In Town and In Fear For Our Lives

2008-11-30T22:53:00.000-07:00

Professor Eberhart has given his permission for me to go into town! I must write quickly, for I must still eat breakfast, then return here to my room and prepare for our trip. Mr. Miller, thankfully, is to accompany me. I was not exactly nervous about going into town alone, but I feel better now that I am to have a friend at my side.

Unfortunately we are to walk the whole way, which the professor says is a good hour there and an hour back, so I must wear my sensible old boots and not the nice dress boots I received on the Erebos. However, I am going to wear my nicer blouse, waistcoat, and skirt, as well as the fancy grey wool coat instead of my old white one, and hope no one notices my shoes. Mr. Miller has but one set of clothes, but I rather think men give less attention to how they appear than do women. However shabby his clothes may be, however, Mr. Miller always keeps them in very good order, very clean and neat with everything properly tucked in and arranged. I really should ask him about his previous employment, before he joined the crew of the Erebos, I mean.

Really must dash!

_____

I WAS A SERVANT.

I WOULD RATHER NOT SAY AT THIS TIME.

I LIKED IT WELL ENOUGH. YES, MY EMPLOYER WAS KIND TO ME, UP UNTIL HIS BETRAYAL.

HE WAS THE ONE WHO GAVE ME THIS SCAR.

I SWEAR I WILL TELL YOU, MISS GREENWATER, BUT LATER. YOU LIKE ME TOO WELL, NOW, AND I AM INTENT ON ENJOYING OUR FRIENDSHIP FOR A WHILE BEFORE I TELL YOU ALL THE UNPLEASANTRIES OF MY LIFE.

I DO SOLEMNLY PROMISE.

THANK YOU.

_____

The above was, of course, written by Mr. Miller. We lunched cheaply in a cafe, the sort of place where men do not remove their hats to eat and where one's boots stick to the floor, but it was all either of us could afford. Indeed, I was a little concerned for Mr. Miller, not knowing if he had any money to his name due to the haste in which he fled the Erebos, but that worry was put to rest when the bill came and he offered to pay for my meal as well as his own. Of course I refused, and paid with my own money, as it was only proper. (I have just remembered my spare cash is still sewn into the petticoat I am wearing! Now that I am settled, I should probably remove it and put it in a safe place in my room once we return to the school.)

Our "conversation" was carried out, as you saw, in my diary, that being the only paper close at hand. I am glad I brought it with me, and I think I must have half-pondered this very thing happening, that is, Mr. Miller needing to write something more than he could spell out with his fingertip on the top of a table. He is currently in a men's shoppe being fitted for another two shirts and a new pair of trousers. As I felt uncomfortable inside, since there were no other women in sight, I am waiting for him on a bench across the road from the shoppe, and will now put down my half of our conversation at lunch.

Obviously, I did ask him about his previous occupation, and was proven right in my conjectures. He would not reveal the identity of his employer, though when I asked (hardly daring to hope for an answer) why he left the man's employ, he told me that his master had given him the wound which disabled his ability to speak! How awful! I asked for details as to how and why, but he declined to answer. I am sure I blushed bright red when he told how he valued our friendship, and I assured him I would love him no less for finding out the truth of his scar and the story that went with it, then made him promise that he would indeed tell me before we parted ways, whenever that might be. I told him that I would not bring it up again until he did, and he thanked me for it. We then finished our meal and went on our way.

What can I say about the city? I think it must be very like any other capital in the nation: big, busy, noisy, dirty. Sun City was a mere speck compared to Reliance, more of a desert "watering hole" than a town. I am very glad, indeed, to have company on this trip, else I would be trying to convince myself every five seconds that I was all right and perfectly able to find my way about in this chaos.

We took an omnibus into the heart of the "shopping district," both of us having decided on buying a few new items of clothing. I have only what I am wearing, and my old clothes from Saint Anne's; the rest are still in my trunk, on the Arabella Genevieve or off it, I know not. And Mr. Miller knew his flight would be much hampered by even a single change of clothes, so he left all but a few small personal items behind on the ship when he left. This morning, I purchased two white blouses, that being all the more I could afford, but I did spend a little more than perhaps I should have on a lovely pale blue skirt, very full, and trimmed with crochet lace at the bottom. I also purchased several new pair of stockings, and some fabric with which to make a new pair of gloves. In my haste this morning, I tugged too hard on my old pair and ripped a hole at the side of the thumb seam. Unfortunately it is too large and ragged a hole to be repaired, but I must make do until I can get the new ones sewn. While I was shopping for all of this, Mr. Miller waited outside, feeling, I am sure, much as I feel now.

I apologised several times for the time I took in the shoppe, though Mr. Miller dismissed all my apologies saying he did not mind, and we made our way to lunch, then afterwards window-shopped a bit before finding a clothier to suit Mr. Miller. It will start to grow dark in another hour, so I suppose we must start back when he is finished. Ah, here he comes.

_____

This is likely the last nice thing I shall write here for a while, Dear Reader. On our way out of town, Mr. Miller purchased a sack of roasted, sugared almonds for us to share as we rode the omnibus back to the road that would lead us to the academy. The bag kept my hand warm, and every time Mr. Miller reached into it, my heart fluttered at his nearness. I was very nervous, but in a pleasant sort of way, if that makes any kind of sense. I feel like a silly schoolgirl even mentioning it, but our fingers brushed thrice when we unwittingly reached into the bag at the same time, and that made my heart positively leap! Oh, Dear Reader, I shall think on this afternoon often in the dark days to come, I am sure.

For I shall have no company but Mr. Miller, and no comforts at all, save the fact that I have managed to produce fire from dry wood without any training (though it was quite difficult.) I write this by the light of said fire, as Mr. Miller keeps watch with a small pistol I did not know he had. We have fled into the woods, for as soon as we reached the edge of the school grounds, we saw the Erebos right in the middle of the cricket field! Captain Belleclaire has evidently found where I have been staying and had come to get me back while I was in town!

Thank goodness I was away, and Mr. Miller, too! Upon seeing the ship, he took my arm and led me quickly across the road, and I didn't say a word of protest. My arms were tired from carrying all my packages, but I kept a tight hold on them as we hurried over a now-empty irrigation ditch, hoping and praying we had not been seen. We then climbed a fence and cut into the field across the road from the school, tall dry grasses swishing around our knees. Every few steps, we would both glance back, the dirigible visible next to the towering structure of the academy. "How long do you think they've been there?" I asked in a whisper, though of course no one was around to hear me. Mr. Miller just shook his head.

When we reached the far end of the field, we followed the fence off to the left, crossing in front of the school, but out of sight of it because of the way the field sloped downhill. We had to climb over another fence at one point, which proved a burden with our packages, but we managed it, and continued on. When Mr. Miller deemed we had gone far enough, we started toward the road again. When we reached it, the school was not in sight, and directly on the other side of the road lay the forest.

That is where we are now, cold and shivering, thankful it has not yet snowed this winter, and terrified of building the fire any higher for fear we should be found out. I do not know what we shall do. We cannot return to the school, for even if the Royal Erebos departs, they will surely leave a crew member behind to watch in case we should come back. Neither Mr. Miller nor I have any connections, at least not nearby. We are afraid to even wire Professor Eberhart or Miss P___ back at Saint Anne's, for doing so would require going into town. Our best bet is to cut through the forest to a small village Mr. Miller knows to be on the far side of it, and see how we fare at that point. But we have no map, no food, no blankets to keep warm. Only our coats and our newly-bought clothes, which I suppose we can use as pillows. (I know it is stupid, but it pains me to think of using the first new clothes I have had in years as pillows on the dirty ground. I shall try to keep mine wrapped up in its paper.)

I am to spend the night out in the open, alone with a man, though one I trust, and have no idea how we shall survive until tomorrow, with the frost and the mist that comes in the early morning. I do not think I shall sleep much at all tonight.

An Almost-Altercation and Forbidden Friends

2008-11-29T23:58:00.000-07:00

It is just after lunch now, and I have not, indeed, finished hemming all the napkins Mrs. Dogwood gave me. The stack was much bigger than I first thought it to be! So I divided it into half, and did half this morning and will finish the rest tonight before bed. I know how tired I always am after my lesson with Professor Eberhart, so I really must get them done before supper, as immediately after supper, I go upstairs to his office, and immediately after that, I fall into bed.

I suppose that nothing much of interest has happened today. The sun has not been seen for several days due to the low, thick cloud cover. Sometimes there is fog in the morning, crawling over the white-frosted grass and slinking through the frozen tree branches in the forest. It is very beautiful to see from my window, but very eerie as well. Thankfully, the clouds keep the warmth closer to the ground, so although it looks very dull and wintry outside, at least it is not freezing.

Oh dear, there I am talking about the weather again. How terribly dull.

Perhaps one interesting thing happened today. Mr. Miller and I almost had a row. (Though I shall not continue the suspense, and say now that we made up immediately and all is well again.)

At breakfast, I innocently asked why he wore his neck cloth all the time. He moved a thumb across his throat to indicate the gash, and I nodded. "I understand," I said, "but why keep it covered?"

"UGLY," he wrote on the table between us.

"But it is a part of you, as my... crooked nose is a part of me," I went on, neither confirming or denying his declaration. True, his scar is not pleasant to look upon, and it is rather shocking to see for the first time, but I think that if he went around without the cloth around his neck, people would not be so shocked by it. Indeed, not much of it shows above the collar of his shirt, anyway.

He shook his head, and began to write on the table again, but I stopped him with my hand over his when he got as far as "FRIGH--" when he meant, I am sure, to write "FRIGHTENING."

"I do not think it is frightening," I said softly, then slowly withdrew my hand.

"NO," he wrote, and "underlined" it, then looked up at me sternly.

"It is quite old-fashioned," I muttered, thinking of the grandfathers I had seen in town back home, with cravats tucked up to their chin and pinned with a bit of gold or silver or, for the poorer among them, copper. "I do not see why a--"

Mr. Miller banged his palm down on the table, making our coffee cups rattle on their saucers. "NO," he wrote again, and underlined it twice. "REMINDER," he wrote, and looked sulkily away, surely thinking of the day the wound that caused the scar was given to him.

The noise caused by his violence had startled me, and I sat in silence, too shaken to speak or eat. Eventually, though, I sipped at my coffee, then finished my sausage, all without looking up at him. I was only trying to help him feel more confident about himself, and to let him know how... well, how unusual he looked, a young man wearing something that was the mark of men two generations older than he. I really did not mean any harm, but apparently the subject was a sore one.

I pushed my chair back from the table and set my napkin down, but Mr. Miller leaned across the table and touched my sleeve before I could stand. "Bernice," his mouth said without any sound, and our eyes locked.

"I am sorry," I said softly, finally dropping my gaze. "How you dress and conduct yourself is no business of mine. I know that I do not understand... the entire story."

After a moment, he tapped the table to get my attention, and I looked up at him again. He pointed at me, then at his nose, then shook his head as he made a zigzag line in the air, and I smiled. "Your nose is not crooked," he was saying.

"Thank you," I replied in hand speech, by bowing my head and touching my forehead with two fingers, like a little salute. "I should go. I have a lot of sewing to get done, and you are... moving furniture?" He nodded. "That's right, so they can polish the floor in the dining hall, you told me. I shall see you at lunch." He nodded, and we parted in the hallway, I to my work and he to his.

_____

I have only just realized that it is the week-end now! All of my days here have begun to blur together, so that I must think hard (or check my diary here) to remember what day, exactly, I drew water from soil, and what day Mr. Miller arrived, and so on. But in the middle of the afternoon, just now, I noticed no bell to signify the end of the class period. I can hear the bells faintly from where I am situated in the building, but I can hear them, only I hadn't all day.

I do not know what difference it makes. I suppose I am only making the point that I have little idea of the date any more. Perhaps in addition to this diary, I need a little calendar in which I can write notes of things that have happened or will happen. Perhaps I can walk into town tomorrow and get one. I have been curious to see the city since I arrived, but as tomorrow is a Sunday, I think I can go freely without feeling guilt over the "chores" I should be doing, and perhaps Mr. Miller could be spared to accompany me. I shall ask the professor this evening.

_____

As usual, I am exhausted, post-lesson. But I must put this all down while it is fresh in my mind. Forgive me if this makes little sense or contains mistakes.

First let me say that my Illumination is growing day by day. Professor Eberhart seems to put great stock in the horrid puzzles he gave me, saying my patience has grown and I seem milder (whatever that means), but I think it is really just because I am determined to succeed, and I have been applying myself to the fullest. At any rate, I am building great structures with the toy blocks, and I am getting faster and faster at it, so they seem to fly out of the box, through the air, and onto one another within a matter of moments (though I have not yet mastered the skill of doing it quietly; the wood makes a great clatter, with all the blocks banging against one another). In addition, the marbles given to me speed through the little wooden maze without even touching the tiny walls! Only two days ago, the marble was forever knocking into the walls, making me flinch with each hollow "thok" sound!

To continue: I was tiring myself out by sending all the blocks into their box, then up into a tower, then back and forth again and again. The professor watched from his chair, glaring slightly when a block tumbled out of the arrangement and hit the floor (though I've nearly mastered the skill of catching the ones that fall!) and nodding with calm satisfaction each time I did it perfectly.

Suddenly the door flew open and a boy about my age entered the room, out of breath and with dark, disheveled hair. "Prof--" He stopped short when he caught sight of me, and all the blocks, which were mostly in mid-air, tumbled onto the carpet with a terrible racket. I flinched and froze, terrified that I'd been caught out, but the boy only said, "You've got another one!" to the professor, and smiled at me. But then he seemed to remember why he had come, and turned to the professor again. "It's Ivy, sir," he said, looking quite grave.

"Yes, what about her?" the professor asked, in his same calm, slow voice tinted with a Germanian accent.

"She..." the boy glanced at me uneasily. "It's like last time," he said evasively.

That got the professor to his feet. "Where is she?" he asked.

"The usual spot," answered the boy. Clearly he didn't trust me, as I was "another one," though I did not yet know what he thought I was.

"Let us go, then," said the professor, going around the desk and toward the door. "Miss Gar--Greenwater," he caught himself just in time, "please return to your room. I shall see you tomorrow." He turned to the boy, then. "Lucas, tell anyone about her, and you will regret it."

"Of course, sir, I understand," he said, and followed the professor out the door, leaving me alone in his office.

I returned all the blocks to the chest they stayed in when I was not practicing with them, but did not return to my room. I wanted answers, and remained in the chair in where I had first sat in that room until Professor Eberhart returned, presumably to lock up for the night.

"What are you still doing here?" he demanded, seeing the lamp still on and me sitting near his desk.

"He said you had another one," I said softly. "Another what, sir? What... what does he think I am?"

"Illuminated," he said brusquely. "As was obvious from what you were doing when he so unwisely burst into my office." He approached the desk and gathered a few stacks of papers into his arms.

"So in addition to me, there is...?"

"Are. Other students here at the school."

"That... that are Illuminated?" I asked, shocked to say the least. He nodded. "Why did you not tell me?"

"They would want to know who you were, where you came from. I know these children, and they are not satisfied with simple lies. Some of them might even figure out the truth, and then trouble could come, knowing your real name, your real story." He shook his head. "You keep to your rooms, Miss, and your friend, Mr. Miller. Do you understand?" He looked up at me suddenly, mechanical eye whirring. "This is important. Disobey, and you will be turned away from this school and my hospitality, Gift or no Gift."

I understood completely. I depended solely on Professor Eberhart now; if not for him, I would literally be on the street with nowhere to go and nothing to do. I nodded solemnly, bid him goodnight, and hurried back here to my room. It is torture, knowing others like me are so near, yet knowing I am not able to even speak to them! If not for Mr. Miller, I would be terrifically lonely.

Sleep now. I forgot to ask about going into town! But I shall send a message to the professor in the morning, or try and see him in person. Goodnight, Dear Reader!

Learning to Speak and Job Satisfaction

2008-11-29T00:21:00.001-07:00

During our walk this morning, Mr. Miller taught me some of the hand speech he used to use on the Erebos to make himself understood, and we also made up quite a bit for our own use. We had a very good time, and I laughed often, mostly at myself for my absurd guesses as to what he meant. When I seemed to be utterly lost, Mr. Miller would stop and write the word in the dirt at our feet, then make the gesture again so I learned it. I will here relate all I can remember, so I can continue to communicate with him by means other than writing.

Stroking his upper lip just beneath his nose means "Captain Belleclaire," for this is the same gesture the Captain himself did often, smoothing his mustache. That one made me laugh most heartily, for Mr. Miller was so like him in expression and bearing when he made the gesture that I could not help but laugh.

A circle made by touching his fingertips to the tip of his thumb, then flying it through the air at about eye level means "dirigible." He designates the Royal Erebos by making a swirl with his index finger, which I eventually recognized as a lowercase "e." The Grand Tourbillion, which we still speak of occasionally, is designated with what I first thought to be a cross, but I now know to be a "T."

He twists his hand in front of his eye, as if rotating a screw, to indicate Professor Eberhart. Mrs. Dogwood is "said" by brushing his hands over his thighs, the way she brushes off her apron every ten seconds, as if terrified a spot of dust might suddenly appear if she is not vigilant. A little salute means Captain Winters, for to do the full-on, right-angled salute as the books display would be too big a gesture for hand speech, and seems too dramatic. Anyway, the subtle little touching of the forehead seems to suit the real Captain Winters better.

Many other gestures are easy to understand. With a lot of actions, Mr. Miller can simply pretend he is drinking to signify "cup" or "tea" or "coffee" or "drink," depending on the context. The same goes for eating, writing, reading, and so on, though he could also mean "fork" or "food" for eating, "pen" for writing, or "book" for reading. Again, it depends upon the context of the conversation, but so far, I have done rather well in understanding him. (At least, we have not had any very great misunderstandings thus far.)

I find it amusing that I have caught myself several times making the hand gestures as I speak to him; touching my upper lip when I say Belleclaire's name, or "writing" on my palm when I speak of my letter to everyone at Saint Anne's. (I did indeed send it, and that same morning I received a wire, saying, "Glad you have arrived. Stop. Hope your journey went well. Stop. We all miss you Pause especially Maggie Pause and we send our love. Stop. We await your letter eagerly. Stop.") Mr. Miller, of course, uses the hand speech because he cannot speak words with his mouth, but there is no reason I should use hand gestures, as I can speak perfectly well. I suppose it is because of his example, seeing him use the hand speech many times throughout the day, that I have picked it up as well. I have only just stopped myself from doing it a time or two during my lessons with Professor Eberhart, thankfully, as it would be quite embarrassing to do such a thing in front of him.

Lunch now; I shall write more later, though I shall make myself finish hemming two more napkins before I write anything more. As Professor Eberhart is paying my expenses to stay here, I feel I really must do a little something to "earn my keep," as Miss P___ used to say.

_____

Between all this writing, and all the sewing I have been doing, I think my hands must have become quite strong! I feel sure I could tenderize meat without a mallet, or knead bread dough without becoming fatigued. Perhaps I would have to do this all with my right hand, however, as my left hand merely holds down the page and grasps the fabric to be sewn, respectively.

As I have been attempting to "earn my keep," I have just found out at lunch (with much confusion with hand gestures, and rather a lot of writing on the table top with his finger) that Mr. Miller is doing so as well. Professor Eberhart seems not to know what to do with him, but he does trust him, after their talk the other night, so Mr. Miller has been put to work doing odd jobs around the school in order to stay on here until another arrangement is reached. (I refuse to let myself think about that, and shall not even write any more about it.) He swept the steps to all the entrances to the building this morning, and helped the groundskeeper rake up fallen twigs after the wind we had last night. This afternoon he is to work on a couple of the doors to the guest rooms which stick closed and must be shoved open with a shoulder or a swift kick. He seems to find satisfaction in these jobs, and appears pleased with the work and with himself, which gladdens my heart to see.

I asked him at lunch if I might accompany him on these jobs, but he told me (eventually--I am still getting the hang of his "speaking" in hand speech along with finger writing) that they are his jobs alone, and he must prove himself to the professor and to Mrs. Dogwood and to the rest of them (the groundskeeper, the cook, and so on) that he is a worthwhile man to keep around, which I certainly understand. In fact, I finished three napkins before I wrote here, Dear Reader, to follow his good example. (I do rather hope, however, that after this batch is done, Mrs. Dogwood has something other than sewing for me to tend to. It is rather tedious, and as the sun sets quite early, I have very little good light in which to sew, as I use lamps or the light of the fire in the evening to sew by.)

And with that, I have vowed to finish all the napkins by the time I go to bed tonight, or if not, by tomorrow lunchtime at the absolute latest. There really is a good satisfaction in an honest job well-done. Oh, Miss P___ would be so proud of me!

Hard Work and Secrets Not Yet Told

2008-11-27T19:57:00.000-07:00

My lessons with Professor Eberhart will be, from now on, considerably more difficult. The next element I shall learn to control and call on is fire, which is the next easiest from water, though by far the most dangerous. For that reason, he does not wish me to start on it until I have gained more control over myself and my Gifts. Therefore, I am now practicing manipulating objects. Rather than just sending a paperweight flying around the room, I am to stack blocks and run marbles through little mazes and the like, all with my thoughts. "Control," the professor keeps saying, even as my tower of blocks crumbles and my marble shoots out of the maze entirely because of my frustration. "Control," he says as he hands me horrid little puzzles to work on to improve my patience between lessons.

One puzzle is a square with a frame, inside which are little tiles which slide back and forth, and up and down. When in their proper places, they will form a picture, but for now it looks like nothing more than a mess. Another has three tiny marbles under glass; the intent is to catch all three marbles in all three indentations or holes in the floor of the thing, and all at once! I think it is impossible, and have been forbidden from using my Illumination to solve it. A third is not really a puzzle at all, but a very large knot of twine, which I am to pick at in an attempt to untie, when the other two puzzles have frustrated me to the point of throwing them against the wall. Ugh! I never thought learning to use my Gift would be so terribly difficult! But the professor said all these things will help me use and control my Gift better. (He also muttered something under his breath then, but it was in Germanian so I could not tell what he said.)

I have realized I have been clenching my jaw while I wrote the previous two paragraphs, so onto something more pleasant. Or at least not quite as frustrating.

Mr. Miller and I did not get to take our customary walk last night. Instead, the school had a fire drill, a practice for what they would do if there ever was a fire or other disaster which would necessitate evacuating the school. I was on my way to the parlour, where we habitually met an hour before supper, when a number of bells, I suppose in a tower high above the school, started clanging. A moment later Mrs. Dogwood entered the corridor, sighing and talking to herself. "Come on, then," she said, gesturing for me to follow her, and she explained what was going on.

Thankfully I was already in my coat and gloves, having intended to take a walk outside, but many of the students were not so fortunate, and stood in rows at the far edge of the lawn, class by class, shivering. Those students who strayed out of line were chastised, and I think some sort of mark was made by their name, perhaps points against them. Several of the professors had clipboards on which they marked off students one by one. When everyone was accounted for, which took a very long time, we were finally allowed back inside. At that point, it was time for supper, so I shed my warm clothes and went into the parlour.

"I did not see you at the drill," I said to Mr. Miller once we were seated with our meal. "Were you outside?" He nodded. "It was dreadfully cold, wasn't it?" He answered yes. I realized then that I was speaking about the weather, which is something I try never to do, for only boring people talk about the weather.

"Are you enjoying the book you are reading?" I asked a moment later, and again he nodded. Then he held up two fingers. "You're... reading it again?" I asked uncertainly. He shook his head, then held his hands out, palms together, and opened them, keeping his littlest fingers close like his hands were a hinge. Or a book! He repeated the gesture, this time with his hands in a slightly different place in front of him. Two books! "You're onto another book?" I asked, and he nodded, looking pleased that I had understood him.

I, too, was pleased that we were able to communicate without him having paper and a pen, but after a time, I asked, "How did you speak to the captain and crew aboard the Erebos?"

He frowned, but seemed to be thinking about how to answer me. First, he pretended to write, one hand holding a pen, the other acting as paper. Then he made the "book" gesture again. "Writing and... reading?" I asked. He shook his head and thought a moment more, then held both hands up, opening and closing them quickly. At first I thought he was saying "Ten, ten, ten," but that didn't make any sense. Perhaps ten thrice? Thirty? But that made less sense. "I'm sorry," I said, "I don't understand.

He thought a minute more, then made what looked like a bird's beak out of one hand, and opened and closed it, like the bird was squawking. Or speaking. He pointed at that hand with his other as he did this.

"Speech... your hand speaks? You speak with your hands?"

An emphatic nod was my answer, as well as a smile.

"And they understood you?"

He held one hand out and made a wobbling back-and-forth motion, to say "Sort of."

"Like I am doing now," I smiled, and he smiled back.

We finished our meal, then sat for a time by the fire. "I wish you could tell me about yourself, like I told you about myself," I said, too nervous to look at him as I confessed this. "It would take a week if you did your hand speech," I said with a smile, "but perhaps... I might get you pen and paper?"

Mr. Miller shook his head, almost too quickly. Clearly he did not want to tell me about himself. I knew from what Captain Belleclaire had told me that Mr. Miller.... That he was not a "good" man, by most definitions. He had killed people, he had stolen things, he had assisted in dark plots. But all I had ever known of him had been kindness and understanding, even if he was, at times, rather awkward about it. (I think that I would be awkward, too, if I were unable to speak.) He is my only friend now, and I think that I am his only friend as well.

"Will you ever tell me about your life?" I asked softly. He hesitated, but then nodded. "Do you not trust me?" This was answered with an emphatic nod. "Then I do not understand what holds you back. I hate to sound childish, but... fair is fair, yes? I told you... everything about me."

This seemed to move him, for he leaned toward me, and again I could see the longing in his eyes to be able to speak. Then he looked around, as if lost. After a moment, he went to the buffet at the side of the room and wrote on the top of it, then motioned for me to join him there.

I HAVE DONE TERRIBLE THINGS

was written in a layer of dust on the polished wood. (I have tried to imitate his odd handwriting and I think have failed.)

"But you are through with that now, are you not?" I asked. "You have... you have left that life to start anew."

He only shrugged, and looked pained.

"You are my friend," I said firmly, and touched his sleeve to get his attention and emphasise my words. "Friends do not keep secrets."

I looked up into his eyes, clear blue like the winter sky, and as endless. (I realize how overwrought that sounds, Dear Reader, but I do believe I could look into his eyes for hours, though I refuse to let myself really think of why.) My hand moved a little closer, to rest on his arm; I could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, and heard my heart pounding, felt it in my throat and fingertips.

Then he pulled his arm away and wrote in the dust further down the buffet:

SOON. I SHALL TELL YOU SOON.

"Do you promise?" I asked. He nodded, looking into my eyes.

A promise was a promise, and if nothing else, one could certainly say Mr. Miller was a loyal man. His answer was enough for the time being, so I stepped back and let out a breath I had not realized I was holding. "We should clean this up," I said, motioning to the dusty buffet and going back to the table to get a napkin. "Mrs. Dogwood would not like to see messages had been left in her dust." I laughed, and Mr. Miller smiled, and the tension between us seemed to have broken.

I would have liked to stay a little longer, but soon it was time for my lesson with the professor. Today was uneventful, for the most part. I finished the sheets and asked Mrs. Dogwood for another pile; instead, she gave me squares of cloth to hem into napkins. They are, at least, a bit more satisfying, for seeing the little stack of finished ones grow is much nicer than the seemingly endless four sides of the sheet. The sunset over the forest tonight was beautiful, and I seem to have been struck dumb by its loveliness, for I spoke hardly at all at supper.

And now here I am, writing this by the light of a little lamp, though I am exhausted. Mr. Miller's company and the thrill of practicing my Gift are all I have anymore. That and the thought of, someday (soon, I hope), helping our cause in the coming "conflict" Professor Eberhart still refuses to speak of.

A Letter Not Written and the Unburdening of a Heart

2008-11-26T23:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader, I am such a horrid girl! I have not yet written to Miss P___ and Maggie and all the girls at Saint Anne's! I should have arrived at my destination--here, really--several days ago, had I stayed on the train as was intended. I shudder to think that they've been worrying about me all this time

As I know a letter will take some time to reach them, I have sent a message into town with the cook's girl this morning, to be sent by wire, telling them only that I have arrived safely, though a bit past schedule, and that a more detailed letter will be coming soon. I shall sit down to write it now.

_____

I have had several false starts with the letter. How, exactly, does one relate to one's friends and benefactors that one has been kidnapped by airship pirates, rescued by living legends, then learned that one's entire self-history is false, and conclude by saying one is now, suddenly, Illuminated and doing amazing things which one can tell no one about.

That was a lot of ones.

I know I cannot divulge the secret of my heritage, neither about my parents and my name, nor about my Gift. This pains me greatly, but I would never wish to put Miss P___ and the girls in any sort of danger. Indeed, Professor Eberhart has insisted I continue to call myself "Miss Greenwater" for all intents and purposes.

Yesterday on our evening walk, I started to tell Mr. Miller all that the professor had revealed to me, having been simply bursting to pour it out to someone, but them I remembered I was not allowed and stopped abruptly. I am afraid I rather confused the poor man, and possibly hurt his feelings, but I insisted I would tell him if I was able, and hoped to be able to very soon. That very night I asked the professor, first thing at our lesson.

"We do not know this man, Miss Gardener." (I wish he would not call me by that name, as I am afraid I shall slip one of these days and call myself by it as well, but it is my true name, and I suppose I shall have to get used to it someday.)

"He is my friend," I said.

"Because he kidnapped you, and took you for walks on a mercenary dirigible for a few days?" His mechanical eye whirred as he looked up at me.

I blushed, but persevered. "He deserted them, didn't he?" I asked, raising my chin. "And anyway, whom could he tell?"

"Any number of people. You know yourself that he can communicate perfectly well through the written word."

How could I let Professor Eberhart know how well I trusted Mr. Miller? It was really more of a feeling than anything I could put into words, and I did not think the professor put much stock in feelings.

My sadness and frustration must have shown on my face, however, for he said with a sigh, "Send him in here. I shall speak to him."

Delighted, I hurried back down the many staircases and corridors, the path I have learned well these past few days, and right to Mr. Miller's room where I knocked eagerly. He opened the door a moment later, a book in his hand (I had convinced him, finally, to visit the school library and was glad to see he was enjoying himself due to his trip there) and his neck cloth missing. "Oh!" I said upon seeing him. "Um, good evening. Professor Eberhart has... has asked to..." He must have realized how I kept glancing down at the scar on his throat every half second--though I did mean not to!--for he quickly turned his back on me and went into his dimly-lit room to retrieve his neck cloth from the nightstand. He did not turn to face me again until he had it securely tied, the tails tucked into the collar of his shirt.

"Please excuse the intrusion," I said, and gave a slight curtsey, still standing in the doorway and feeling quite awkward now that I had made him feel awkward. "Professor Eberhart would like to see you." He nodded and stepped out into the hall with me, then closed and locked his door after himself, dropping the key into one of the many pockets in his trousers. We walked for a moment in silence, then he touched my arm to get my attention and gave me a slightly worried look.

"Oh no, everything's fine," I told him, and he looked relieved. "Do you remember when I started telling you something earlier, but said I had to stop?" He nodded. "It's about that. About... letting me tell you. Oh dear," I said, and frowned. "I suppose I oughtn't to have told you that, either, for now you know the professor is involved with it."

Again he touched my arm, and again had a worried expression, though there was softness in his eyes, a question. "Of course I trust you," I told him. "You'll just have to convince the professor that he can trust you, as well."

We said no more as we continued up to Professor Eberhart's office. I knocked, then opened the door for both of us, but the professor bid me wait outside. Apparently he intended to interrogate Mr. Miller alone. Once the door closed, I paced for a while, then stood and stared at the door, through which I could hear nothing. (Yes, I did try, to my shame.) When it finally opened again, I was leaning against the opposite wall about to nod off, but was wide awake in an instant when I saw Mr. Miller step out. He looked neither excited nor disappointed, but before I could ask him how it went, he nodded, gave me a small smile, then hurried away. The professor called me from inside his office and said we were to resume our lessons.

(I do wonder what was said to convince Professor Eberhart! But as long as he said yes, I shall not mention it again. The gift of his trust of Mr. Miller is enough.)

I did passably well moving the water--or rather, making it move on its own, with me guiding it--but right now I am so thoroughly sick of the subject, I cannot write about it. I pushed and pushed myself last night and do not wish to dwell on it any longer.

Lunch now! Goodness, how time gets away! I became very sidetracked; I had intended this morning to write my letter to the girls at Saint Anne's! Later, later!

_____

To finish my tale, as briefly as possible: I did not see Mr. Miller again last night after my lesson, but after breakfast this morning, we took our usual walk and I told him all. When we had circled the grounds twice and were too cold to continue our walk, we returned to the parlour so I could finish the tale of my parents and the Libertists; not only that, but I told him of Saint Anne's, and Maggie, and Miss P___ and Father D___, about how I thought my parents would be and how it turned out they really were, about the orphanage itself and the town I grew up in, and a great many other things. When the clock struck eleven, I jumped up and excused myself, embarrassed at having rambled on for so long. I suppose that is why lunch at one o'clock seemed to come so quickly; I was not in my room alone for much time.

But lunch was perfectly pleasant, though quiet, since I had nearly worn my throat out with talking! Perhaps instead of taking our walk this evening before supper, I shall ask Mr. Miller to write out things of his own life so it feels rather more even.

Until then, I simply must get this letter written and ready to send with the cook's girl tomorrow morning. I don't know what I can possibly put in it that will not shock and worry them all! If I tell about Bellclaire and his crew, I shall have to tell the reason they kidnapped me, which has to do with my Illumination, which I cannot mention. And I would so dearly love to tell Maggie, especially, about meeting Jack Winters (oh blast it all! I should've taken an image capture of the two of us for her! oh, woe!), but I cannot tell about that without telling of the pirates, and so on and so on. Perhaps.... I do hate to lie, but it seems the only way! I suppose I must say that I remained on the Arabella Genevieve all this time, and that it was delayed for... Hmm, for reasons which I do not know, as I do not understand trains. Yes, I can say it was broken down for a few days.

Oh, my. Perhaps once this "conflict" is resolved, I shall be able to tell Maggie and Miss P___ and all the others the truth about my family and my Illumination and all the rest. Until then, I suppose I must settle for pleasant untruths.

Farewell and Finding Peace

2008-11-26T00:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader, I have tried so hard lately not to be the second Bernice! I threw myself into my lessons with Professor Eberhart last night, and while he said I did very well heating the water (it almost boiled! indeed, bubbles rose up from the bottom of the glass, and I could feel the warmth when I wrapped my hands around it) and even better cooling it (that practice glass was filled with solid ice, after a lot of concentration) I still was not satisfied with myself. I begged to stay later, and he agreed. I succeeded in moving the water from one cup to the other, but then he sent me to bed. Tonight we are to work on controlling the water so that it moves almost of its own accord from one glass to another. Apparently last night I was just moving it as I had done with the other objects, but I need to learn how to tell the water to move, rather than moving it myself. It doesn't make much sense to me, but I shall try my best.

Even after as hard as I had pushed myself last night, and as exhausted as I felt in body, my mind would still not let me sleep. I lay awake for over an hour, my mind whirring from one subject to the next. That is when the second Bernice came through, pushing the first Bernice--the logical, structured one--to the side. I wondered how long I would stay at the Academy, mostly useless and mostly bored but for my lessons at night with the professor. I worried about how useful I would be in the coming war (though Professor Eberhart refuses to call it a war, instead saying "conflict"). I thought about the awkward goodbye between me and Captain Winters, which was not at all like I thought it would be, had I imagined meeting him even a month ago. And I went over and over the time I spent with Zebediah--Mr. Miller!--yesterday.

I suppose I should say a few words about my parting from Captain Winters. He left just after breakfast, as I wrote yesterday. As he brought very little with him, he had little to pack, and stood at the front doors with a sack over his shoulder. (He had worn his mustache and kept his hair dark all the time we'd been at the school, in case anyone should recognize him; I am sure it will please him to go back to normal once he boards his ship again.) Professor Eberhart and I were there to bid him farewell, and we both wished him the best. Then he turned and went away, intending to walk to town where he could catch a carriage for wherever he was meeting his ship.

I thought that was it, but after a minute, something made me run down the pathway after him. "Jack!" I called, then caught myself. "Captain Winters," I panted, coming upon him as he turned around. "Forgive me," I said, still a little out of breath. "I..." What did I want to say, after all? "Thank you. For... Well, you have taught me... many things about the war, and about your part in it. About all our parts, really. I... I see things differently now. And I apologise for... for acting as I did, before. It was foolish of me, and I beg you accept my apology." I curtseyed and kept my eyes downcast.

He didn't say anything for a moment, and I began to get nervous, but then I looked up and he spoke. "I am glad to have enlightened you," he said, sounding neither kind nor stern. Then, sounding a little kinder, he added, "And I am glad that you have admitted it. You have changed since I first met you, Miss Gardener. I know your Gift will flourish under Professor Eberhart's tutelage, and I think you will be an asset to our cause."

Dear Reader, I hardly think I have received such high praise in all my life! I felt a bit of faintness, and feared I would swoon as I had upon meeting Captain Winters (even in the disguise and shabby clothes, his eyes are still almost the prettiest I have ever seen), but I took a deep breath and was all right, then. "Thank you," I managed to breathe, feeling butterflies knocking about inside my chest.

"Farewell, Miss Gardener," he said. He made me a little bow, then turned and was on his way. And that is probably the last I shall ever see of Captain Jack Winters of the Grand Tourbillion.

Goodness, now I hardly feel that I can write about Mr. Miller. Dear Reader, I would never confess this to another living soul, but the same butterflies I felt when I bid Captain Winters goodbye began fluttering within my ribcage when I was around Mr. Miller. I do not know what to think of this! I know that my infatuation with Captain Winters was silly and childish, and that I was in love with the idea of him which had been presented to me in articles and novels and sequential picture books, not the man himself (which I realize I do not know hardly at all, even after spending days on end near him).

If that is true, and I know it to be so, then my feelings for Mr. Miller must be the same, yes? Silly and not based in reality, as I met him under dire circumstances and befriended him out of necessity. For I feel the same faintness, the same nervousness, the same heat in my palms and on my cheeks, around Mr. Miller as I did, upon occasion, around Captain Winters. My heart pounds so hard that at times, I can feel my pulse in my throat and the back of my head. It becomes more difficult to speak, but it is worse with Mr. Miller as I feel I must fill the silence with words! And so I fear I end up sounding like a complete idiot when I do speak.

We have taken to strolling the grounds morning and evening as we used to do on the Erebos. I do not know why. I was only aboard that ship for a handful of days, and it had been more than a week since last I saw him, which one would think would be enough time to forget a habit. But when I returned to the parlour after bidding the captain farewell, Mr. Miller was still there, sitting by the fire. He jumped to his feet when I entered, but I bid him sit, as I had only returned for the sewing I had left the night before. (I felt horrid sitting around doing nothing most of the day, so I begged the housekeeper, whose name I finally learnt was Mrs. Dogwood, to give me something useful to do day before yesterday. Miss P___ would be proud, as I have sat for the last two days patiently hemming sheets with as small and neat of stitches as I can manage.) I meant to take the sewing to my room, but Mr. Miller asked if I would stay. For the sake of keeping each other company, I agreed.

We sat for some time in silence, I sewing and he staring into the fire, but at length I asked if he would not like something to read. The school had quite a nice library, I had been told, though I had not yet ventured there. (I did not admit that it was because I was afraid of running into those awful girls again.) He only shook his head, but nodded in thanks for the suggestion. Then I asked if his shoulder was feeling better. He nodded, but I noticed tension around his mouth and eyes and thought it must still pain him, though I did not ask.

At length, I tired of sewing and wished to stretch my legs. As I put my things away and rose, it occurred to me that it would be only polite to ask him to join me, and so we agreed to meet at the front door in a few minutes' time. This proved rather silly, as our rooms were just down the hall from one another, so he ended up walking me to my door. Instead of going straight to the front door after I got my coat and gloves, I simply waited in the corridor, where he joined me a minute later. Sufficiently bundled up, we headed out of doors, and then to the path which curled around the entirety of the grounds.

The school is bordered on two sides by a forest; on the third, there is a cricket pitch with a field beyond it, and on the fourth side runs the road which leads into Reliance. We are not so far from town that, when it is clear and still, sounds of carriages and shouts cannot be heard, but we are sufficiently removed for town not to be a bother. "Much more refreshing than a dozen turns around a ship, isn't it?" I asked after a while, and he nodded. I suddenly thought it stupid of me to have brought up the Erebos, but then noticed he did not look particularly troubled at its mention. "Do you miss it?" I asked hesitantly. He shook his head without a moment's thought. That at least was a relief.

There were a handful of students out on the grounds, most of them merely taking the air as we were, but a few of the boys seemed to be playing keep-away, making one of the younger boys scream. I was not worried about being seen, however; Professor Eberhart had told me he spread the story that I was his niece, come to visit him as my parents were very ill, and I had been sent away that I might be spared. I have not yet heard if there is a "story" about Mr. Miller; I should ask the professor tonight.

The sky looked like snow yesterday on our morning walk, and indeed has continued grey and heavy-looking, but nothing has happened yet. The dirt beneath our feet was packed hard, and the lawn all around was mostly dead, though there was a bit of greenery around the school building itself in shrubs and little evergreen bushes, as well as in the forest. All was quiet, but for the occasional shout from one of the boys, and we circled the whole of the grounds before returning to our rooms. We parted with a smile in the hallway (and the butterflies returned for a time), and did not see each other until lunch time. We took another walk before supper, while the sun was still up, then dined together, after which I saw the professor. This morning, our walk was mostly the same: quiet, peaceful, and almost comfortable but for the jumping around of my heart every time Mr. Miller cleared his throat, or accidentally let his coat sleeve brush mine. It is most infuriating, being slave to my pulse when all I am trying to do is take a walk with a friend!

It is a very odd friendship, that I admit. We almost never speak, yet somehow we communicate what we need to. I know almost nothing about him, and he knows little about me. Other than writing letters back and forth, I do not know how to rectify that. And at any moment, something could happen to part us again. Bellclaire could show up in the Erebos and take me to Mr. Bergstrom, or shoot Mr. Miller in retaliation for his desertion, or any number of terrible things! Yet I try not to think of all that on our walks, and instead ponder peaceful things like the sound of our footsteps almost--but not quite--in time, or how pretty the forest is at sunset. I feel at ease, then. The best part is that I do not feel like one Bernice or the other. I am not trying to be logical and steadfast and loyal to my country, nor am I worrying about silly temporal things. I simply.... am. And it is nice.

Progress Made and Questions Asked

2008-11-25T00:47:00.001-07:00

Oh, Dear Reader, I feel lately like I am two people!

One Bernice is Illuminated, and at once excited by and frightened of her Gifts, but trying very hard to learn how to use them. She meets Professor Greenwater every evening to practice for over an hour, then wants to fall into bed immediately after. But she is loyal to her country and is determined to learn all she can in order to help it, and so she perseveres.

The other Bernice is just a girl, a young woman, with the normal hopes and worries about normal (I think) things. She worries that her clothes are too shabby, that her hair is strange, that her nose is crooked. She wonders if she talks too much and if she says anything when she speaks. She tries her best to know her own heart, but at times finds it so impossible she is nearly moved to tears!

Oh dear, I am afraid I am making very little sense. First I shall write about my lessons with Professor Eberhart, and if my head is any clearer then, I shall write more about the life of the second Bernice.

Last night, Professor Eberhart said he would start me out with the simplest "trick" of all the elements: drawing water from earth. It should be easy, he said, as he set a bucket of damp dirt on the desk before me. The earth was already heavily imbued with water; it was only a matter of separating the two, really.

Well, it was much easier said than done. I tried to call up the feeling I had when I sent objects through the air, but that didn't help much at all. After staring at the bucket with no effect for several minutes, Professor Eberhart tried to help.

"See it in your mind. Imagine the drops flowing up through the earth and beading on the surface. One drop at a time. Do not imagine the top of the bucket filling with water. Start small. One single drop of water."

This seemed to help, though only a little. I stared at the earth for several more minutes, imagining in my mind, as the professor said, that a single drop of water was rising from the middle of the dirt, up, up, to break through the surface. When that didn't work, I pretended that I was the drop of water, struggling inch by inch toward the top of the bucket, but that was even less helpful, and gave me a bit of a headache.

(I can imagine this was very boring for the professor, but he merely sat opposite me in his great big chair, arms folded, and watched silently.)

The ache at the base of my skull grew worse, and I wished for a glass of water to drink, but did not want to ask for one as I was supposed to be working. I licked my lips and swallowed to moisten my dry mouth, and that is when things "clicked" in my mind. I longed for water at that moment, and suddenly several drops appeared on the earth at the top of the bucket! I looked up at Professor Eberhart, smiling, and he nodded his bald head up and down.

"Good, good," he said calmly. "Again."

After another twenty minutes or so, I seemed to have mastered it well enough in the professor's opinion, for he brought out a different bucket of earth, drier than the first. It took more time and a lot more concentration, but eventually I succeeded in pulling a few drops to the surface, and then a few more.

"You have done well," he said to me as he took the second bucket away. I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in my chair. "Tomorrow we shall do more with water. Heat it and cool it, and move it if you can."

"Wow," I breathed. I had never thought I would be doing such things, yet here I was, manipulating the elements just like Catherine in the books! That brought to mind a question. "Are you teaching me this so I can..." But then I trailed off, embarrassed.

"Yes?" the professor prompted.

"Well, I..." I'd been meaning to ask if I would be able to call up golems of earth and stone to defeat our enemies, like Catherin did, but thought it would sound terribly absurd aloud. Instead, I asked, "Why am I learning all of this? You hinted at a conflict, but what can I do to help?"

He cleared his throat, and it seemed he was stalling for time to think of an answer. "I do not wish to involve you too deeply yet," he said. "Right now it is mostly conjecture. Hints and whispers." He cleared his throat again. "But there has been talk of some of the old loyalists--like our friend, Mr. Bergstrom--wishing to turn our country back over to Britannia. Mostly it is members of the upper class, those who own companies which use things we import from Britannia (and are heavily taxed, so the public buys little of it), or who control trade routes. Those who used to hold titles, or their fathers did, before we did away with them. In other words, those who had the most to lose when we won the war, and the most to gain if we went back to Britannian rule."

This was very bad news indeed. The war had gone on for nearly a decade and was hard-won. As a new country (relatively speaking), we had fewer resources and fewer soldiers on our side. Miss P___ still talked about the rationing, the way all spare metal was donated for bullets and bayonets, and how the women knit stockings and caps and the like for the soldiers. As I learned in my lessons, our country was still experiencing the aftermath of the war: bombed buildings still being rebuilt, women and children left homeless because their husbands and fathers were killed in the war, and so they were unable to keep their houses. Because of this, crime rates rose because the homeless children turned to theft and worse to get by, and fallen women were more and more common, especially in the larger cities. After all the trouble we'd been through to win the war (just ask Captain Winters), and all the trouble we were still having because we'd won, how could these Loyalists think of turning the country back over to the very people we'd defeated? It was sickening, really. And rather terrifying, to think I might play a part in stopping it.

"Do not trouble yourself about it now," Professor Eberhart said, as if he could read my thoughts. "If anything is to happen, it will not be for some time yet. All you can do right now is practice your Gift, and get plenty of rest. On that note," he said as he rose, "I think you should return to your rooms for the night. Goodnight, Miss Gardener."

The name still sounded strange to my ears, and I curtseyed belatedly because it took me a moment to realize he was speaking to me. As I had the night before, I was asleep the moment my cheek touched my pillow, worn out from such hard work at my lessons with the professor.

Oh dear, it is time for lunch now. Captain Winters left just after breakfast this morning, so it is to be Mr. Miller and me alone. It will feel strange, I think. I had convinced myself that I would never see him again, yet here he is now, and for I know not how long. I shall ask him his intentions over our meal, though I suppose I shall have to ask the housekeeper for paper and pen once more, if I am to get any reply.

An Old Friend and A Vile Plot

2008-11-24T01:57:00.002-07:00

Dear Reader, you will never, ever guess who I met on my walk yesterday! Not if I gave you twelve guesses and then told you it was someone I thought I would never see here, of all places!

It was not Miss P___ or Maggie, nor was it anyone I knew at Saint Anne's. It was not Adelaide Kynton or any of her family. No, you will never guess, so I shall tell you.

Zebediah Miller emerged from the woods at the edge of the lawn yesterday afternoon on my walk! His clothes were very dirty, more of a grey colour than the off-white they are supposed to be. There was a hole in the knee of his trousers, and one of his fingerless gloves was coming unraveled at the cuff. There were several scratches on his face, and dark circles beneath his eyes, but his posture improved when he saw me, though I noticed he still kept his left arm close to his side. Evidently the gunshot wound in his shoulder still pained him.

"Mr. Miller!" I cried, and I had to shout loudly for I was near the building, and he was many metres away. He waved with his good arm and limped toward me as I wondered what on earth had happened to him, why he was here, and how he came to be here.

I met him in the middle of the lawn, and when he was close, he held out his hand to me. I took it gladly, clasping it between both my own gloved hands. "Are you all right?" I asked. "How is your shoulder?" He nodded, though he looked pained. "My goodness, come in, please. However did you find me?"

You know, I do not know why I always ask him questions. I know he cannot answer unless there is a piece of paper before him and a pen in his hand. He can communicate somewhat through gestures and expressions, but of course he cannot reply to specific questions. I am sure he is used to it, especially from people he just meets, but it must get tiresome. I shall try to do better from now on.

To continue: I brought him into the parlour where Captain Winters and I took our meals. Unfortunately, the Captain was already there. We hadn't taken two steps into the room before he was on his feet with his pistol drawn and cocked. I assured him that Mr. Miller meant no harm, but the captain sent me to the far side of the room and made Mr. Miller empty all his pockets (and they did not contain much), gun drawn all the while. When at last he was satisfied, he allowed me to ring for tea, which was brought shortly. The captain thought it would be wise to call Professor Eberhart, and so after a while, he arrived as well, though he could only stay briefly as he had a class soon.

I explained to them both how kind Mr. Miller had been to me while I was aboard the Royal Erebos, and how he had been shot by Jacobs in the fray during my rescue. Captain Winters looked pleased at this point in my tale, but I ignored him and continued on to tell of how Mr. Miller emerged from the forest in this state, and how I found him.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself?" Professor Eberhart asked. Of course I had told them both that he was unable to speak, so it was merely a figure of speech.

In answer, Mr. Miller turned to me and touched his fingers over his heart, then pointed at me. "Mr. Miller," I murmured, blushing, but he leaned forward and shook his head, then repeated the gesture. "I am sorry, I do not understand," I said. Was he saying he loved me? Why declare it in front of two strangers? How was one to react to such a thing?

But it was not that at all. Looking as though he were suppressing his frustration, Mr. Miller rose and took my coat from the coat rack near the door and brought it to me. He tapped the outside of it, the part that would lay over my heart when I wore it, then reached into the inside pocket there and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Oh my!" I cried. "You were telling me about this!" I felt very much a fool then, for thinking he had declared himself when all he meant was for me to check my pockets. How stupid I was! The thought never crossed my mind, that he meant something in the coat itself, and not my own person. He must have put it there the night before we were to arrive in Franklin Bay, or even earlier, when he helped me on with my coat.

I have here copied the contents of the note, though I cannot imitate his strange, all-capital writing where bits and pieces of letters are missing:

"You are being taken to Mr. Victor Bergstrom , in Franklin Bay. He was a staunch Loyalist during the war, but talked and bribed his way out of any charges, though he was deeply involved. You are Gifted, Miss Greenwater, and those Gifts must not be used for Mr. Bergstrom's benefit as he intends. I will make sure I am your personal escort on the way to his home, but I know of a place where we can slip away in the crowded city, and then flee. Stay close by me, and trust me. I do this for your safety, and indeed for the safety of our country. Destroy this letter by fire as soon as you have read it, and never speak of it to me until we are well away from Captain Belleclaire and the Erebos."

He meant to help me all along, and I was ignorant of it all this time! Captain Winters, of course, felt that his way of rescuing me was far superior to that of a pirate's and a deserter's, and dismissed Mr. Miller's plan as foolish and dangerous. (He is unaware of Mr. Miller's true capabilities, so I would indeed have trusted him to get me away, but Captain Winters need not know that now.)

Wisely, Professor Eberhart stepped in before anything could happen between the other two gentlemen. "Right now, the heart of the matter is that Mr. Miller knows Miss Gardener--Greenwater," he amended at Mr. Miller's puzzled look, "is Illuminated. Yet if I understand correctly, you hold no formal title on the Erebos?" Mr. Miller nodded. "So you are not normally privy to all the details of the, ah... jobs... you are hired to do, only your part in them?" Another nod. "How, then, did you come to learn of Miss Gardener's circumstances and vow to help her?"

"I"ll explain about my name later," I said softly to Mr. Miller, and he held out his hand in the same sort of gesture one would use to tell a dog to "stay," which I understood to mean, "I shall wait." He then asked, by pantomime, for paper and pen, which I quickly procured. Rather than copy down what he wrote, I shall tell it in my own words:

Most of their jobs on the Erebos involved smuggling: pick up such and such cargo from such and such a place at such and such a time, and transport it to such and such other location. Occasionally they smuggled people, but mainly people--adult men--who had done some wrong to their employer, for which the employer wanted repayment or even revenge. (He declined to go into details as he was in the presence of a lady.) So when a young woman, defenseless and entirely ignorant of the reasons she was brought aboard, was their quarry, his suspicions were raised. Belleclaire trusted him implicitly, and would never think that Mr. Miller would betray that trust. However, he did so by looking into the captain's log book, which told him that I was Illuminated and was to be delivered to Mr. Bergstrom for his own personal use.

The sight of those words on the parchment, which Professor Eberhart, Captain Winters, and myself were all crowded around, chilled me to the bone. "For his own personal use." I could not bear to think about it, and returned to my place in the chair next to Mr. Miller feeling somewhat faint. The professor had been right, then, in telling me that the other side would want to use my Gift for their own advancement.

He went on to say, as I found when I could breathe normally once more and finish reading the parchment, that the Erebos, too, had docked in Orangeburg to refuel and restock shortly after we did on the Tourbillion. He left the ship then, without being noticed, and it was his hope that they would not realize he was absent until they had been in the air for some time and it was too late to go back. All he had to go on was that I had told him my intentions to go to Eastern Madison Academy. If he did not find me here, nor any trace that I had been, he would have at that point reevaluated his options. Whatever happened, he knew he must warn me of Mr. Bergstrom's intentions. Belleclaire never returned to his clients empty-handed, and so Mr. Miller said he must be on the hunt for me as well.

I thanked him as profusely and as well as I knew how. Even though I was well and safe now, he had not known that, and had risked much--all!--to ensure my well-being. Hearing my praise of his courage and virtue lit his eyes up from the inside, and he looked a little less tired after hearing it.

However, that did not mean he was not really tired. Professor Eberhart called the housekeeper again to request a room for the new guest, and also that laundry services should be deployed post-haste to take care of his clothing. Mr. Miller bid us farewell for the time being, then retired to his room.

We have dined together thrice since then, supper, breakfast, and lunch, and it would be like "old times" if Captain Winters was not here. However, he said he will be rejoining the Tourbillion tomorrow in a town a few hours off by carriage. He will have to hire someone to bring the glider on as well, and will leave very early in the morning.

That is quite a lot that I have just related! And while I would like to record my recent attempts at using my Illumination, I cannot put it into coherent words now. Last night I did indeed practice with Professor Eberhart for another hour and one half, then fell into bed exhausted. However, I can now chose any object in a room and make it soar through the air as if it weighed nothing, merely by thinking of it! Tonight we are to move onto something more difficult: I shall begin to learn how to control the elements!

Truth Learnt and Great Feats Performed

2008-11-22T12:23:00.001-07:00

Dear Reader, I am excited beyond measure and have been since last night, but I am going to do my best to relate everything in the order in which it happened, so as to better preserve the memories for myself and anyone else who would care to hear them told someday.

It is morning now, and Professor Eberhart has classes all day. (Look, I am already starting at the end. Oh, well.) I begged to see him during lunch, but he said that he usually dines with the other faculty in the Dining Hall. (The students eat there, too.) It is suspicious enough, he says, that a young woman and a stranger has been going to his office daily, but if he were to deviate from his routine, for which he is well-known, people would begin to wonder. I asked why it was important to keep this such a secret, but he only said that until we know more about why Belleclaire was taking me to Franklin Bay, and to whom he was taking me, we should be careful and quiet concerning how we carry on. I suppose that makes sense.

He also said that I must not ever use Illumination in the presence of others. He knows Captain Winters and trusts him, so Jack is exempt, but I am not to display my Gift under any circumstances to anyone but Jack Winters and the professor himself, until he says otherwise.

Oh yes, Dear Reader, I have made use of my Gift since last I wrote in this diary! And, more wondrous than that, I have learnt of my family! It is not at all how I thought it was; the story Professer Eberhart told me was very different than what I have believed all my life. I see now, though, why I was told the lie. It was for my own protection, and the protection of those who knew me, for if my true identity was known, I and all my friends would have been in danger. I was even given a different surname, to disguise me further! I am no longer Miss Greenwater, but--

Well, now I am getting ahead of myself again. All right, I shall try and start over.

When I arrived at Professor Eberhart's office last night, I could practically feel my skin tingling, I was so on-edge and excited. At once, I burst out with a dozen questions, none of which, I am sure, made any sort of sense to the professor, as they all tumbled out on top of one another, my words blurring together. (Miss P___ used to say that I sounded like an over-excited chicken when I got worked up about something, and made almost as much sense. I think she was mostly joking, though.)

The professor's silence and stern look was enough to calm me, after the first torrent of words was over, and I sat quietly with my hands in my lap so I would not fidget. Several seconds passed, which seemed like several hours, then at last the professor asked, "How are you feeling tonight, Miss?"

"Confused, sir," I answered. "And... a little frightened."

"Mm, yes. All the information you received last night certainly came as a shock to you. But you are feeling well, after your swoon?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Perfectly well, thank you."

"Good." He nodded, then cleared his throat. "I suppose I first must tell you that your name is not Greenwater." He paused a moment, for me to digest that. I do not think I really did, and in fact, I am still getting used to it. It is so strange to be called one thing all my life, and then suddenly learn that no, I am not that, I am something else. Someone else.

"What... is my name, then?" I asked slowly.

"You are Bernice Gardener," he told me, and paused again so I could get used to the idea. At least I have the same initials, I thought, though really it doesn't matter since I have nothing monogrammed but the handkerchiefs I have done myself.

"Gardener," I repeated softly. "Why was I told my name was Greenwater all this time?" I asked.

It will be easier and make more sense if I here relate all Professor Eberhart told me, without my interruptions and requests for clarification. Now I have had time to think about it and put it together in my mind, and so here it is:

My parents were not John and Mary Greenwater, but George and Alice Gardener. They were deeply involved in the war, though very few knew of it. They were part of a group of spies and underground fighters who infiltrated meetings of the Loyalists (which were what those still loyal to Britannia called themselves) by pretending to oppose independence and support continued relations with and rule by Britannia. My mother and father, apparently, were some of the best, having brought down many many Loyalists. (I am unclear if they themselves arrested--or possibly did away with--these Loyalists, or if they merely reported them to the Amerigonian authorities. I do not think I wish to know just now.)

However, about six months before I was born, a traitor among them betrayed the entire group, who called themselves Libertists, and they were forced to go into hiding. Fleeing the attacking forces of the Loyalists, my parents and their friends made haste into the Falls Lake Forest at the base of Foresight Peak. Traveling by night and sleeping by day, taking turns with watches, they went further and further into the forest, until they began to climb the mountain. Fortune favoured them, for one night they found a crevasse not far up the side of the mountain, which widened into a cave large enough to house them all. They numbered about fifty at the time (six having been picked off by the pursuing Loyalists throughout the previous days). However, once they were safe inside the mountain, the Loyalists caught up to them and trapped them within it, laying siege. The Loyalists were kept at a distance by the use of the Libertists' men's rifles, but they knew they could not stay there forever.

Four days they were trapped in that cave, and four days they spent searching the various branches of the cave, more massive than they had first thought, for an alternate way out. If even a few of them could escape, they knew, they could reach friends in the nearby town of Smithsfield who would come to their rescue. But after four days they had run out of food (and unable to hunt or forage for more), and were losing hope. Deep within the cave was a spring, which thankfully provided them with fresh drinking water, but they knew they could not survive much longer without any other sustenance.

But at the source of the spring, deep inside the mountain, lay certain crystals. Sacred Crystals, the likes of which have not been seen for over two centuries. They knew not how they came to be there or who put them there, but when the Libertists realized what they were, they made a pact to Illuminate themselves with the Crystals in order to escape the cave and defeat the Loyalists, and from then on they would hide the Crystals and their Gift unless there was dire need for either or both.

And so the Loyalists were defeated and my parents and their comrades escaped unharmed and went back into the world to win the war, bit by bit, sometimes using their Gifts and sometimes not.

Things are usually darkest before the dawn, as Miss P___ would say, and only months before the war was truly won, my parents were in great danger and fled across the country under assumed names, trying to save themselves and their infant daughter--me. And, said Professor Eberhart, since my mother was with child at the time she took the Illumination into herself, I was born with that same Gift.

Almost more shocking than all of this was the true tale of my parents' death. They did not perish in the crash of the dirigible the Defender's Pride, as I have believed all these years, but were murdered brutally in their home by a branch of Loyalists on the west coast, where I was raised and where they thought they would be safe. To this day, it is not known how the Loyalists found them, but the following morning the neighbours (for my parents lived in a small flat in a rickety tenement house) finally called the police, after hearing a baby--me--squall for hours on end. Miraculously, a pair of Libertists arrived before the law did (and were, themselves, police officers), so they were able to smuggle me away and invent a new name and a new story for the death of my parents when I was brought to Saint Anne's. To give credence to the story, one of the men took my mother's locket and burned it on one side, so it would appear to have been singed in a great fire. The Pride having crashed outside of town just that morning, they were provided with a good cover story.

Whomever had ordered my family killed, Professor Eberhart said, was surely furious to learn that the infant child of the Gardeners had been left alive. Bless the bumbling fools who could not find it in their hearts to murder a baby, even if they were wicked Loyalists! But that is why a new name and a new story was invented for me; if the Loyalists had been able to find me, knowing I was Illuminated, they would surely have killed me to save themselves the trouble later, or, worse, kept me for their own purposes, raising me amongst lies until I was old enough and strong enough with my Gift to advance their agenda.

But it is too late now! For I am alive, and the professor says I am to help with some new great struggle between Amerigo and Britannia! He did not go into details, saying he had given me enough information for the day, but said he would explain all soon enough. Until then, I am to practice with my Gift in private and under his supervision, to prepare myself for what I think could be another war!

After all of this was told to me, the professor again brought out the paperweight and ordered me to move it. I struggled for some time, but still could not, to my great anger and frustration.

"How did you move it last night?" he asked me. We were, as before, standing on opposite sides of his great desk.

"I don't know!" I cried, trying hard not to pull my hair out from vexation. "I only thought about it, and it happened! But I have not been able to do so since."

"What were you thinking about, when you moved it?" he pressed. "Did you call on some memory, some feeling?"

I thought for a moment, trying to remember. "I... I recalled the fear I felt when you first threw the object at me," I said slowly, working it out as I spoke. "I made myself feel the same shock and... terror... as I did when I saw the cube hurling through the air toward my face."

"Recall that fear once more," the professor urged. "Feel the tenseness of your muscles, the leap of your heart. Convince yourself that your very safety depends on you moving the cube."

It took several minutes, but at last the paperweight slid across the desk first one way, then the other. I looked up at him, beaming, and he nodded somberly. I suppose that is all the more excited he gets about anything, but it seemed high praise to me. "Very good," was all he said. "Again."

We worked for another half an hour, then he sent me back to my room to rest, for I was exhausted after all the strain. I am to return this evening for more practice moving things with my thoughts, and if I am doing well with that, Professor Eberhart said we would progress to other things.

The morning has gone and it is now early afternoon. I shall here conclude for the day, and take a stroll on the grounds to refresh myself.

A Missed Appointment and A Troublesome Trio

2008-11-21T19:46:00.000-07:00

Oh my, I am tired. I got only a few hours of sleep last night, and it was not at all restful. I cannot imagine that fainting unconscious is very good for one's health, and after I woke and wrote in my diary in the early hours of the morning, I could not return to sleep for quite some time. I slept fitfully and had stressful dreams, though I cannot now recall what they were about. Only that I felt as though I had been running all night, and woke almost more exhausted than I was when I finally drifted into sleep.

Unfortunately I slept through breakfast, and by the time I had thrown on my clothes and dashed up to Professor Eberhart's office, he was no longer there. I knocked, to no answer, and after a moment I put my eye to the keyhole and saw it was dark inside; even the curtains had been pulled closed. Sighing, I trudged back toward the parlour where Captain Winters and I ate our meals, hoping there would be something left of breakfast for me. On the way I finally met some of the students that attend this school.

I have just realized I have not yet said the name of the school! It is the Eastern Madison Academy for Fine Young Men and Women, and a very old institution. Its tuition fees, I have heard, are high enough that only very select students are admitted, children age twelve and over from "old money" families, some even descended from the nobility of Brittainia, before we did away with titles.

Therefore, what happened next should come as no surprise.

Three young ladies about my age dressed all in pure sparkling white came arm-in-arm down the corridor toward me, whispering to each other and laughing softly. "Excuse me," I called out as they neared. "Could you tell me if you know where Professor Eb--"

"Look!" Interrupted the girl in the center, by far the prettiest and clearly the leader by how she carried herself and how she spoke. "A new servant girl."

"Actually, I'm a guest at the school. I've come to..." But before I had two words out, they all erupted into laughter and passed me without a backwards glance.

Now, I realize I looked rather shabby in the disguise Captain Winters made me wear. (In fact, I am now in the fine clothes given me by Belleclaire, despite how it pains me to wear a gift from him.) But shabby dress is no reason to assume someone is a servant. Even if I were a servant, there was no excuse for those ill-mannered, spoilt prisses to treat me as though I were nothing more than a piece of trash littering the corridor. Miss P___ always taught us to never judge a book by its cover, nor to decide upon something without learning about it thoroughly first, whether it be a person, a town, or anything else! It seems that having money means you needn't be taught manners, at least according to those three students.

It is just before lunch as I write this, and Professor Eberhart has sent a note telling me that he was sorry I missed our morning meeting, but that after the shock I had last night, he thought it best I sleep as late as I pleased. We have made another appointment for tonight after supper, and I can hardly sit still, I am so excited! At long last, I shall learn everything about my parents, and more than that, about this gift of Illumination I suddenly know I possess! (I have tried several times to move small objects with my thoughts, but have not yet succeeded. I do hope the professor can tell me why, as it is rather worrying. Perhaps last night was all a dream.)

A Very Great Shock and Still No Answers

2008-11-20T21:47:00.001-07:00

It is late, or rather very early, but I must put this all down before I forget it, before I think it was all a dream. Perhaps in writing it, I shall convince myself that it was real.

Professor Eberhart was delayed from returning last night as we had been told he would, though the housekeeper did not tell us why. But he returned shortly before supper today (and what a long and boring day it was), as we were told by the housekeeper at our meal. We were also told that he would not be receiving guests until tomorrow morning. At this point, Captain Winters leaned in close to her and said something which I could not hear, but she nodded and left the room. (We have been dining alone in the little parlour in which we were first installed upon our arrival, as no other guests are currently staying at the school. Meals are mostly silent affairs, but not a comfortable silence like it was with Mr. Miller.) When she returned some fifteen minutes later, she said, "The professor will see you, sir," and we both rose to our feet, but Captain Winters gave me a stern look and told me to stay there for the time being. Frowning, I returned to my seat, and pushed the remainder of my meal around my plate in order to look like I was not yet finished, and thus be allowed to remain in the parlour.

After half an hour, the captain returned and said I was to come with him. I jumped up eagerly and followed him down a corridor, up a couple of flights of stairs, and down another few corridors, where at last we stopped in front of a door identical to the dozens of others we had passed but for the small engraved plaque on the wall next to it reading "Professor Josef H. Eberhart, Botany and Biology."

"After you," said the captain, and I entered after rapping briefly on the door and being told by a voice from inside to enter.

Behind the door was a very fine office, displaying the esteem in which the school held Professor Eberhart. The walls were paneled with dark wood polished to a gleam, and a thick carpet lay upon the floor. The desk was massive, as were the chairs in front of it and the throne (for that is how it seemed) behind it. In it sat a rather stout man of about five and sixty with a fringe of white hair above his ears, and a white beard and mustache. He wore a suit of dark green with a crisp white shirt under an emerald waistcoat. There were rings on many of his fingers, and a fine watch chain looped from one pocket, through a buttonhole, and into the other pocket. All of this I noticed later, however, because the truly remarkable thing about this very well-off professor was his right eye.

It was mechanical. I do not mean that it was a normal eye moved by mechanics, but that it was made of brass, with tiny working parts inside it. I cannot fathom how it worked, but there was an iris of what looked like real emeralds set in gold, and within that a pupil made up of many tiny pieces of metal which moved in accord to dilate larger and smaller. When all was quiet, it could be heard making very faint whirring sounds when he moved it or focused on something nearer or further away.

"Miss... Greenwater," he said in a deep, gruff voice. "Come in." Trying my best not to look terribly intimidated by the splendour around me as well as the man before me, I took one careful step after another until I was just behind one of the two chairs facing his desk. I gave a curtsey to the best of my ability (and I think Miss P___ would've been proud, had she seen me), then stood with my hands clasped in front of myself.

"Well, sit, sit," he urged rather impatiently, and I hurried around to the front of the chair and practically dropped into it. Captain Winters took the other chair a moment later. "Captain Jack Winters has told me your story," said the professor, and I noted his Germanian accent. I did not know what to say to that, so I remained silent until Professor Eberhart spoke again. "You have had quite an adventure."

I could not see his lips move beneath his mustache; it seemed almost as though words were coming straight out of the middle of a bush of white, bristly hair. The thought was ludicrously funny, and I bit my tongue hard to keep from laughing, which would be most inappropriate. "Yes, sir," I managed to say, and finally sobered myself by thinking Jack Winters had surely brought me here because Professor Eberhart could tell me something about my family. It was enough to calm me down.

"I was wondering if you might tell me your tale in your own words," said the professor.

"If it pleases you, sir," I said, but then I was not sure where to start.

"You boarded the train the Arabella Genevieve..." Winters prompted, and that got me going.

I told the professor everything. Much of the wording of my story was fresh in my mind, having just told Captain Winters the entirety of my tale a few days before, but I added on at times, recalling details I had forgotten and including things I had read in my diary when I was looking through it this morning, having nothing else to do. I told him all about the Kyntons, and noticed when he sat up a little straighter at the mention of Mr. and Mrs. Kynton, especially when I told him of their comparison of me to someone named Alice. I described my kidnapping and my time on the Royal Erebos, including Captain Belleclaire's taunts and Zebediah Miller's kindness. Then of my rescue by Captain Winters and his crew, and my brief stay on the Grand Tourbilion. I finished by describing our terrifying "glide" to the outskirts of town, and how we made our way to the school the day before yesterday, though I left out Captain Winters' outburst. At the end of the telling, I was quite exhausted, but I felt strangely better than I had felt for days. It is such a relief to write in this diary, Dear Reader, but telling my joys and woes to this stern, grandfatherly-looking professor unburdened my heart wonderfully!

When I was through at last, Professor Eberhart had one arm crossed over his stomach with his elbow propped on it, leaning his chin on his fist and staring intently at me. "Might I see your locket, young lady?" he asked. I began to stand up and open my locket, but he said, "No no, I would like to see it up close. If you would not mind removing it all together...?"

I did as he asked, unclasping it from around my neck, then leaning across the desk to place the necklace in his soft hand. The locket was already open, and he brought his hand up to his face to see it close. I heard the quiet whir of his mechanical eye focusing, and watched it with fascination as he studied the images within my locket.

"These are your parents?" he asked, looking up at me, and I nodded. "And you have always had this locket?" I told him the story I told Captain Winters not long ago, how I was brought to Saint Anne's with the singed locket tucked amongst the blankets I was wrapped in, how either the man who rescued me took it from around my mother's throat, or my mother pulled it from her neck and put it in my cradle as her dying act.

Professor Eberhart asked Captain Winters if he would please leave us for a while, which the captain did without a word. I watched him go, a puzzled expression on my face, but turned back to the professor silently, waiting for him to speak.

He first returned my locket to me, and after I closed it and put it back on, he said in slow, measured words. "I knew your parents, Miss... Greenwater."

"You did?" I gasped. "Oh, that is wonderful news! What were they like? How did you know them? Why didn't you say so before?" I was ecstatic, my heart was soaring! At long last, the thing I had yearned for all my life was just within my reach!

"I shall tell you everything very soon," he said in that same slow, careful way, as if he were afraid I would shatter if he spoke too loudly or too harshly. "But first, I want you to do something for me."

This was very unexpected, but I nodded.

He took a black stone paperweight from the edge of his desk and placed it in the center, right between us. "I want you to move this without touching it," he said, and gave me the same intense stare as before.

I did not respond for several seconds, but at last asked, "Move it... without touching it?" He nodded. Wondering if old age had dulled his mind, I scooted to the edge of my seat, then leaned forward and blew on the paperweight, very hard. Of course nothing happened, but I could think of no other way to move the thing without touching it..

Professor Eberhart chuckled and waved me back into my seat. "Very good, Miss, but that will not work. Nor may you touch the desk, nor may you move from your chair, understand? I only want you to concentrate, and will the object to move."

I blinked at him. "What, you mean like... Illumination?" He nodded again, and I laughed. "But I'm not Illuminated! Haven't you been listening? My parents were normal people. My father was on his way to a job as a manager in a textile mill, before the dirigible crash. My parents had one trunk between them that was burnt to ash, nothing more."

He said nothing in reply, just kept watching me.

"You do not understand!" I insisted. "I cannot move that paperweight with my thoughts alone! I am just like you, I have no special gifts! It is impossible!"

"You are just like me, Miss," he said quietly. "Only you do not know it yet. Now, try."

I clenched my teeth in frustration, but to appease him, I stared long and hard at the black stone cube. It had letters carved into it, but I was too far away to read them. Nothing happened. And then, more nothing happened.

"I cannot!" I cried, raising my hands. "I cannot move it with my mind!"

"You can!" the professor shouted, punctuating his words by banging a fist on the desk. The sound startled me and I jumped, my heart pounding. "You must! Now do it!" He pounded the desk again and once again, it startled me.

"I can't!"

"Do it!"

He was making me angry, and scared, and all together very upset. He was asking me to do the impossible! Only a very few people in the entire nation are Illuminated enough to do such things, those of good old blood. Their half-breed children and children's children (shunned by the family for their ill-advised marriages and pairings) have odd little gifts, enough to earn coins on a street corner by turning handkerchiefs into doves and the like, or to amuse their friends at dinner parties, but that is all. "I can't!" I cried once more.

He was on his feet quicker than I would have thought possible for a man his age, leaning over the desk at me. "Why do you say you can't if you have not even tried?" he demanded.

"I have tried!" I shouted back, too angry to realize I was yelling at my elder and better. "I cannot do it!"

"You will do it!" He picked up the stone cube and pulled his arm back as if to throw it, and I flinched, throwing my arms up in front of my face, but he kept his grip on it.

"Look at me!" he cried, and I lowered my arms. And then he did throw it, straight at me!

And, Dear Reader, I know not how, but the heavy stone cube veered off as it flew toward my face, curved sharply just inches from my nose, and tumbled harmlessly onto the carpet.

I was on my feet an instant later, scrambling backwards to put the chair between the professor and I. "What did you do?" I demanded, my voice and hands shaking.

"I did nothing," he smiled rather smugly, clasping his hands behind his back. "It was you who did it."

"I did not!" I cried. "Tell me what you did!"

"Look, let us see if you can do it again," he said, and walked around to retrieve the cube. He placed it in the center of his desk again, and stepped back to stand at the side of the desk. "Go ahead," he urged. "Move it again."

"I didn't move it before!" I insisted. I must have thrown up my arms at the last instant, and was not yet feeling the pain because of nerves. Or perhaps there was a mechanical contraption hidden inside the paperweight and it had flown off to the side after the professor had secretly wound it up.

"Bernice," he said sharply, and the sound of my given name shocked me so much that I looked at him. "You are Illuminated," he said slowly. "You have the gift. You have power most can only dream of. And if you will only believe that you have it, I can show you how to use it."

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. Everyone, I think, at some point or another, dreams that they are special, that they can do something no one else can, that they have something unique about them that makes them unlike any other person on the planet. But when I was faced with that truth, I did not want it anymore! I wanted to be comfortable and normal, I wanted to run from the room, run all the way back to Saint Anne's, and pretend none of this had ever happened!

"Yes, Bernice. You hold something extraordinary inside you," he whispered. "Let it out. See what it can do." He leaned forward and nudged the black cube so it slid an inch across the desk. "Move this with your thoughts." Then he stepped back, and I couldn't see him anymore. All I saw was the cube, and its blurred reflection in the highly-polished red-brown shine of the wood it sat upon.

I could move it with my thoughts. I had power inside me, I was among the ranks of the Illuminated. Could it be true? And what about my parents? Did they have the gift too? Professor Eberhart said he would tell me all, if only I did as he asked. All I had to do was move the cube of stone on his desk without touching it.

I stared at it so long I thought I would burn a hole in its side with my gaze. But I concentrated, I willed myself to believe that I had the power to move objects as I wished. I remembered the thrill of terror I felt when I saw the paperweight hurling through the air straight at my face, how I wanted to protect myself but could not move my arms fast enough.

And then it happened. As I watched, the object slid across the surface of the desk, as I had seen a magnet do with another magnet underneath the table. But surely there were no magnets. To prove that theory wrong, I willed the paperweight to move the other way... and it did. I glanced up at the professor, and he nodded and gave that same smug smile.

"How did I do that?" I asked faintly. Then the room tipped sideways, and went black.

And here I am, with a note from Professor Eberhart that I am to visit him after breakfast tomorrow morning, which will be in just a few hours, by the look of the grey sky out my window. Then, he wrote, he will explain everything.

Uncomfortable Truths and Terrible Disappointments

2008-11-20T00:44:00.000-07:00

While we are here doing nothing waiting for Professor Eberhart to return, I have made an appointment to see Professor Greenwater after lunch, and ask him if he knows anything of my family. Until then, I have nothing to do, and as I do not wish to associate with Captain Winters just now, I shall relate the rest of what happened yesterday.

Captain Winters had become rather frustrated with me, I think, by the time we reached the edge of town. I suppose I was complaining a bit, but I am not used to walking very great distances! It must have been miles! Yet he expected me to keep up with his longer stride, and apparently he didn't even want to talk to pass the time! For I asked him many questions about the war and his ship and his crew, but he either ignored them, or dismissed them with very brief answers. I found him not at all like he is in the sequential art books or the novels. He is rather brusque and not very friendly toward anyone, whether they be strangers or familiar to him. I have seen his charming smile only a handful of times since he boarded the Erebos several days ago.

By the time we reached the outskirts of the city, we were not speaking at all. I was sure I had blisters on both my heels, but of course I could not take my boots off in the cabriolet to check. We rode for several blocks in silence, until I could not bear it anymore.

"Why will you not talk to me about the war?" I asked. "There are books about you, articles, images. If all that is out for the public to see, why can you not tell me anything I have asked?"

Captain Winters looked at me coldly, his eyes narrowing. "I will give you this answer, and then I do not want to hear another word about it ever again," he said, his tone harsher than I had yet heard it. I nodded, too shocked to do otherwise. "Those novels, and those little weekly shams they put out with my image on the cover? They're all fake. Not real, do you understand? They pay people lots of money to come up with that tripe, and the public eats it up. But it's all fictitious! I never battled the Forth Duke of Wellington at the bottom of Desolation Gorge. There is no such place as Desolation Gorge, and I've never met the Fourth Duke of Wellington! I never leapt from the deck of the Grand Tourbillion onto the top of the Swift Sparrow to gouge a hole in the balloon and sink it. Human strength can't even pierce the shell of airship balloons!"

This, Dear Reader, was terrible news. I had only read a couple of the short novels featuring "Captain Jack Winters and his Daring Crew of the Grand Tourbillion," and those were well-read copies at the local library, and all out of order. But the sequential art books! Every other Saturday when Miss P___ took us girls into town, we were allowed one half hour to do as we pleased, so long as we took at least one other girl with us, and were back at such-and-such a meeting point by such-and-such a time. I always took Maggie with me to the bookshop, where we hid in the back corner of the store to catch up on the latest issues of "The Grand Adventures of Captain Jack Winters." Before she could read well, I read them to her, quietly, so as not to draw the attention of the shopkeeper. He didn't like that we read his books without ever buying anything, but he allowed it because, I believe, he knew who and what we were and felt sorry for us.

"None of it?" I asked. "Not the rescue of Annie Pratchett?"

"There is no such person."

Dear Reader, I was crushed. That series of four books was my favourite, and had been since it came out three years ago. Annie was so beautiful and headstrong, yet she always swooned at just the right moment and, of course, fell into Jack Winters' arms. Unfortunately, she found out her childhood sweetheart was not, in fact, dead as she had supposed, and ended up marrying him, with many wistful backwards glances at Jack as she was led to her new home by her new husband. It was heartbreaking, and even worse to know the story wasn't true!

"Not the battle for Castle Het--"

"There is no such place! I told you to drop it! Those tales are fictions spun from air in order to make money, that is all! Nothing more! If they published the true tales of the war, no one would buy them."

"What do you mean? Of course they would! You were terribly heroic and noble in the war, bombing parliament and tracking down the secret headquarters of the--"

"How can I make you understand?" he shouted. "I look at my hands every day, and still see blood on them, twenty years later! You say 'bombing parliament' as if it were nothing, but people died because of me, because of what I did!" It was getting noisier outside as we drove further into the city, the sounds of people talking and walking, the sounds of horses, of cabs, of merchants in stalls selling their wares, all growing louder, but Captain Winters took no notice. "That building was leveled in the middle of the day. It was full of men and women just doing their jobs, working at desks and in offices. And all the civilians outside as well, hit by flying rubble, crushed by the falling walls. Do you understand that, little girl? War is a bloody, painful, nightmare-inducing horror, so don't you believe a word of the tripe that's not worth the paper it's printed on!"

I was absolutely struck dumb, not only by the force behind his words and his surprising anger, but by the revelation as well. I had never thought of war heroes as... well, as killing people. Every child learned about the bombing of the Brittanian parliament in classes from the time they were small, but it was really just... a piece of our history. How we defeated the Brittainians and became our own, independent country. I never thought of the buildings being full of people, but saw it rather as the destruction of a great landmark that made the Brittainians lose a little more hope and grow a little closer to surrendering. And of course the generals had to be killed when Captain Winters and his crew found their hideout, but that never registered, either. I sat there wondering if they were ambushed, or lined up against the wall and shot, or if their afternoon tea was poisoned by Jack or one of his crew in disguise as a servant.

Needless to say, the remainder of our journey was silent, and when we arrived at the school, as I said before, we were shown into a little parlour and told to wait. Upon learning that Professor Eberhart was not here, we were taken to guest rooms.

It has just occurred to me that schools, even very nice private schools for rich young men and women, most likely do not give any peasants off the street coffee and biscuits and rooms to stay in for nothing, and am now worrying if Captain Winters paid the housekeeper-type woman who showed us around. Am I expected to pay for my half of everything? I have money, still, but it is all from Saint Anne's. Although I suppose this is helping me on my quest to discover any family members, which is what I intended to do with it in the first place, so perhaps I ought to use it. It is just that I hate spending money, and would much rather sleep in a peddler's shelter than pay money to stay somewhere nice.

_____

Have just been to see Professor Greenwater. I do not wish to go into details, but he said he did not know my family. I did not look familiar to him, nor did the images of my parents in my locket (though he, along with so many others, said how remarkably like my mother I looked). He could offer me no help, but wished me luck.

I am too distraught to write further; all my hopes have been dashed and I do not know what to do now. I suppose I shall say I am not hungry so I can skip supper, and stay here and cry.

Gliding and Yet Another New Bed

2008-11-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

Apparently Captain Winters is to accompany me all the way to the school! Not only that, but we are both to be in disguise! Of course Captain Winters would be recognized wherever he went, since his face is everywhere. I am not sure why I need to be disguised. Perhaps it is in case Belleclaire and the crew of the Erebos is looking for me, though how they would know to find me in Reliance, I do not know, for I do not think I ever told any of the crew where I was headed.

Oh dear. I suppose if they knew I was going to be in Sun City, they had to know that I was on the Arabella. And if they knew that, they would know where I boarded the train and where I was supposed to get off at the end of my journey. If not that, then they could have followed the Grand Tourbillion discreetly, or asked after it, since it is a government ship and its whereabouts are generally known by the public. Now I am afraid again!

Jacobs has just come by to tell me we will be leaving in two hours' time, though he said--I think he said--we weren't going to land. How then shall we reach the school? Shall we jump? I must have misunderstood him.

There is now a great deal of noise going on out on the deck. I peeped out to see a pile of large wood and metal pieces being hammered and screwed together in the middle of the deck. It seems several of the crew members are building something, though what I cannot fathom. It is more than half the width of the whole deck, in length, though very slender from front to back. Interesting.

_____

I have been to watch the building from the safety of the little raised walkway in front of the cabin, and it seems to be a small contraption with wings covered in canvas, and three little wheels on the bottom, two fore--I mean, in the front, look at how I am using ships' language--and one in the back. It is mostly... what is it called? Framework, I think. No "walls" but only supports connected together, and a "floor" on the bottom. In the middle are two small chairs, one behind the other.

Oh dear. I believe this is how we are supposed to get to the school without landing the dirigible. I am not sure I like this at all.

_____

That was absolutely terrifying, and I do not think I shall be able to stop shaking for hours still! Captain Winters and I have been tucked into a cozy little parlour at the school and given a pot of coffee and some shortbread biscuits. The captain is pacing and looking at the clock every three seconds, but I am very glad to sit and rest and do nothing for a while.

Blast! We have just learnt that Professor Josef Eberhart is away on business, and will not return until tomorrow night! Captain Winters still will not tell me why he wishes to see the professor, but I think it must have something to do with me, for why else would he keep checking on me, and make arrangements for the both of us together? If he wanted to see Professor Eberhart on his own, he could have dismissed me to seek out Professor Greenwater, as was my plan, or go to the Reliance City Library, or any number of things besides "Wait," which is all he has been saying for two days.

I am now in a little guest room, with Captain Winters down the hall, and I suppose I could tell of my experiences this afternoon. My hands have very nearly stopped shaking at least, so my writing should now be legible.

Not long after I put away my diary after watching the flying contraption be built, Captain Winters knocked, then entered when I answered him. "Pardon me, Miss--Miss Greenwater." It seemed as though he stopped himself before saying all together the wrong name. Am I that easily forgettable? "As we are to leave in an hour, I thought it best we get on with our disguises."

"Oh yes, certainly," I replied.

He stood near the open door and stared at me for a minute before I realized what he meant. "Oh! I am sorry, you want me to leave."

"Yes," he answered, sounding a bit strained. "At least while I am changing my clothes."

I turned scarlet, curtseyed hurriedly, then nearly ran out the door, which he shut behind me. Not knowing what else to do, I watched the last of the preparations for the flying contraption. One of the men was sitting in the front seat and moving various levers to make bits of the wing and tail go up and down or back and forth. My nerves grew worse, and I put my hands in my pockets to keep from chewing my nails. Finally I could stand it no longer, and knocked on the captain's door.

"Yes!" he called, and I stepped inside.

"Are we really to fly in that... that thing?" I asked, panic surely evident in my voice.

"I assure you, it is perfectly safe," he said. I noticed that he wore shabbier clothes, all in pale colours and much-patched. He was combing something into his beautiful blond hair to make it darker, almost dusty-looking.

"How does it... how does it go?" I asked. "I saw no motor, no balloon."

"It doesn't 'go.' It glides." He leaned close to the mirror on the wall and picked something up from the top of the bureau, then pressed it over his upper lip; it was a fake mustache!

"What do you mean, glides?" I asked.

"We will launch it off the side of the ship and glide.... sort of float down to the ground. I've done it dozens of times, you've nothing to worry about."

This comforted me a little. At the very least, I figured I could close my eyes for the whole thing, if it was all that bad. "Why must we go in disguise?" I asked.

"So we are not recognized."

I suppressed a sigh. "I know that, but why?"

He did not answer, as he was adjusting the mustache and looking at the roots of his hair for any bits of dye (or perhaps he really did just use dust) that were stuck there. "Your things are on the bed," he said without turning around. "We are to be father and daughter, on our way to visit my elderly aunt in Reliance. We shall have to land somewhat outside the town and walk to the school."

Father and daughter! True, he was forty years of age, and I suppose he could have had a daughter of eighteen, but I do not think I looked young enough, nor he old enough, to be taken for father and daughter! "Mightn't we be... young lovers, in search of work in Reliance?" I asked quietly.

The captain turned around and stared at me. "No," he said bluntly. He donned a beat-up knit cap and started toward the door. "Change and gather your things," he said. "I shall return for you shortly."

I sighed in frustration and put on the rags he had provided. Why they had women's clothes on board, I do not know, but I was not about to ask. I put my few belongings into my case, my clothes into a bag, and put on the fine coat Belleclaire had given me. As soon as I was outside, though, Captain Winters caught sight of me and shook his head. "No no no," he said. "Put that in the bag and wear your old coat."

It was white and practically threadbare at the elbows. The sleeves hadn't been long enough since I was about fourteen, so a not-quite-matching band of fabric had been tacked onto the end of each to make them reach my wrists. The hem, which reached my knees, was frayed, and the bottommost button was different than the rest of them, as it had fallen off and needed to be replaced. I thought I would never have to put it on again, with the nice grey wool coat I now owned, and hated wearing it again and looking like the poor orphan girl I really was.

I didn't have long to mope, though, for Jack Winters was motioning to me to come down onto the deck. Amazingly, a whole section of the side of the ship had been removed. I mean the sort of railing or half-wall all around the deck; I do not know the term. So once Captain Winters and I were loaded into the contraption, he in front and I behind, with our hats and goggles on tight, several of the crew gave a great shove to the back of the thing and off we went over the edge! I was too frightened even to scream, and didn't realize I'd been holding my breath til I gasped in a lungful of air several moments later. I clutched at the back of Jack's seat, my teeth clenched, muscles tense, then made the mistake of looking over the edge.

Thinking about it now, it must have been a beautiful sight. The city itself was densely populated with tall buildings and several squares with little sparkling specks in the centers--fountains, I believe--as well as little green patches of parks. Further out there were smaller buildings, which I took to be houses, and beyond that fields of varying colours of brown, as it is nearly full winter now. But at the time, I was too terrified to take in the lovely view, and could only think how very, very far below us the ground was, how small and light this craft was, and that we had no way of propelling ourselves to safety.

True to Jack's word, we floated gradually down and down, the fields and buildings and squares growing larger and larger. We turned big, slow circles, spiraling down, and landed with a big bump and several smaller bumps at the edge of a field full of prickly, broken-off corn stalks. Once our things were unloaded, Jack untwisted a few bolts and I do not know what else (though it only took him a moment) and removed the wings (wing, really, for it is all one piece) from the top of the contraption. To think of how lightly they were held on nearly made me swoon! He then tucked both pieces into some shrubbery. Not a very good job of hiding it, but no one would be looking for it, all the way out there.

We then walked for what seemed like forever, until we reached the very edge of town and could catch a cabriolet to take us to the school.

There was more, but it is late and I am exhausted from my trying day, so I shall continue tomorrow.

A Brief Stop and A Pity Party

2008-11-17T21:02:00.001-07:00

It seems that after we dock and resupply this afternoon, we shall immediately be launching back into the air to go to Reliance, Madison! As of yesterday, the plan was that I was to be put on a train in the town where we are docking, which I believe is called Greenburg or Some-other-colour-burg, and sent to Reliance that way. So why would Captain Winters and his crew need to accompany me there personally? He was polite when he informed me of the previous plan, certainly, but I could tell everyone was rather eager to get rid of me. I suppose I cannot blame them, as I must be rather a nuisance. I know I am, and have tried to be good, but it is just so terribly exciting, being on the Grand Tourbillion and amongst the people who helped win the war! None of them are very eager to talk about it, but I have got snippets here and there.

Of course, half of the crew is different than that which bombed Brittania’s parliament and attacked the secret base of the main generals leading their side, since that was all nearly two decades ago. However, whether by association, or their own heroic acts, or a combination of both, the “new” crew members (some of whom have been aboard nearly as long as the originals) have the same place in the hearts of the public as those who won the war.

Oh, we have started our descent. I am afraid it has made me a little air-sick, so I shall conclude for now and continue later.

_____

We have once again gained the proper altitude and are humming along nicely toward Reliance. I was not allowed off the ship in Orangeburg (what a funny name for a town!) but I was rather glad of it, as the experience of my last solo jaunt into a city was all too fresh in my mind. I did, however, go up on deck to watch the business going on below on the ground.

The airship field was at the edge of town, and not terribly busy in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. The passenger ships had one area, the cargo ships another, and everything else (including us) was allotted a third portion. Since we are a government ship, we were actually allowed priority for things like refueling, emptying and refilling the water tanks, and having some men from the airship field look us over inside and out, as a sort of check-up. Part of the crew went into town for specific items, and others supervised the loading of things that were in warehouses just next to the airship field: food, water, beer, coffee, toiletry items, and so on. Great cranes were swinging about, lifting big crates onto ships and taking them off. A number of dogs were running around and getting in the way, though I do not know if they were strays or if they belonged to the men who ran the field.

We were only there about an hour and a half, then I was sent to Captain Winters’ cabin so the crew could prepare the ship for departure. I felt a little airsick as we climbed up into the sky, but I am better now.

Oh yes! I was going to describe the ship. It is laid out very like the Royal Erebos, in that the cabins and galley are at the stern of the ship with the wheels at the bow, a level below the deck for the crew, and a level below that for storage. The Tourbillion is painted all white, with three blue stars clustered in the upper left corner on each side, just like the Amerigonian flag. The balloon from which the ship is suspended is, of course, silver in colour. How strange to be spending several days aboard a ship I have seen all over on posters and in books!

_____

Evening now. I just spent a long time looking out the window at the passing clouds, and feeling sorry for myself. I am lonely here. It is terribly exciting, being on such a historically-important ship with such historically-important people, but it is not quite as I thought it would be. I seem to be in the way all the time, and so I am shut up in this cabin more often than not. Out of habit, I suppose, I have begun strolling the ship morning and evening, as I used to do on the Erebos. (I must not let myself think of Zebediah. And I will not cry.)

There, it is too late. Several tears have already blurred the ink on this page. It is ridiculous to miss a murdering pirate, though I can tell myself that all I want and it still does not change my feelings. What is the matter with me? Miss P___ called moods such as this “pity parties,” and after she sat and consoled me, or whichever of the girls was feeling down, for a time, she would send us off to do something useful, claiming that the best cure for a “poor me” attitude was to prove to ourselves that we were valuable young women. (Usually by cleaning the water closet or mopping the dormitory floor or washing all the windows. I don’t know about the other girls, but it didn’t make me feel terribly valuable. Although it did get my mind off things for a while.) Perhaps I should follow her advice and straighten up the cabin a bit. I have been too afraid (and awed) to touch anything here, but I could certainly take a dust rag to the surfaces, shake the rugs, and neaten the books. Yes, I think I shall. And it will be a nice surprise for Captain Winters when next he enters his cabin.

Keeping Company and Another Coincidence

2008-11-17T00:42:00.000-07:00

Something very odd happened today. Well, not very odd, compared to being kidnapped by pirates, making friends with one of the pirates, then being rescued by a living legend and his famous dirigible crew. But still odd.

Jack (I should not call him by such a familiar name, as if we have known each other for a long time, but it is so difficult to think of him as anything other than a war hero and public figure whom everyone knows and calls familiarly) allowed me to keep him company for part of his shift as he piloted the ship for a while. The quartermaster (which means navigator, more or less), Henderson, showed me around the Grand Tourbillion yesterday, though he didn't seem terribly happy about it. Despite him, I enjoyed myself, but shall tell about the ship some other time.

Anyway, Jack kept glancing at me from the corner of his eye as he steered the ship. I thought I might be bothering him, though he had granted me permission to join him, so I stepped back and kept my adoring gazes to a minimum, but he continued to look over at me now and then. I became self-conscious and tried to discreetly wipe my face lest there was some sort of smudge or something, and I smoothed my hair, but could find nothing wrong. Finally I asked him, "Is anything the matter, sir?"

He looked hard at me for a moment. I felt my knees weaken and my heart pound, though he seemed only to be studying me as a scientist would study a specimen. "No," he murmured. "It is only... you remind me of someone. I cannot put my finger on who, though." He frowned at me a second more, then turned his attention to the sky again.

On a whim, I stepped a little closer and asked lightly, "Was her name Alice? My friend's mother, on the train" (I had told him the entire story of my journey once I was settled in his cabin the first night) "said I reminded her of... Are you well, sir?" I asked, noting how he had suddenly gone pale, and how his hands were gripping the spokes of the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Alice?" he asked in a whisper. "Alice who?"

"She did not say. And I know of no one by that name, though apparently I look very like her. Mr. Kynton said so as well. Did you know her too, sir?" I asked, wondering how on earth a couple who lived and worked on a train would know anyone connected to Jack Winters.

He said nothing, but seemed very focused on the sky ahead of us. He didn't speak for such a long time that I was about to introduce a new subject when he finally asked, "You are sure she did not say another name than Alice?" he asked. "Mrs. Kynton, I mean?"

"No sir, I am sure it was Alice."

Still he frowned, and his grip on the wheel was tense. "You are an orphan, you say?"

I nodded. "My parents were killed in the Defender's Pride crash nearly eighteen years ago." It was the biggest and worst airship crash in all of history; one had only to mention its name and people shuddered, and those who were old enough had a story to tell of where they were when they heard about it. In a last effort to crush our spirits toward the end of the war, the Britannian government sent men to sabotage the ship, which was practically the pride of all Amerigo, brand-new and in perfect condition, having only taken three flights before its destruction. It was the biggest passenger airship ever built, at that time. The saboteurs lost their lives in the effort, along with hundreds of passengers and crew members, as well as those in the civilian homes and businesses on which they crashed.

"It was a miracle I was saved," I went on. "This is a remnant of the crash," I said, and showed him my locket. "It was scorched in the very fire of the Pride. I believe that my mother's last act in life was to tear it from her neck and thrust it into my cradle, though Miss P___ thinks that the young police officer who rescued me must have taken it from my mother to save something of my family for me." I opened the locket, and leaned up on my toes to show him.

For a moment, I was thinking only of how lovely it was to be so near him, and have all his attention focused on me. But soon I realized how pale he had gone once more. "This is your mother and father?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, sir," I said uncertainly. He took the locket from me and I had to strain up on my tip toes, he was pulling so at the chain. "Sir?" I asked, and the strain must have come through in my voice, since he let me go.

"What are your parents' names?" he asked abruptly.

"John and Mary Greenwater."

For some reason, he didn't look as though he believed me. "I see," he murmured. "Thank you, Miss Greenwater. You may go." As I left, I heard him call for Henderson, the quartermaster.

Why would he not believe me about my parents? The tale I told him was the same story Miss P___ told me, which was related to her by the constable who brought me to the orphanage the day after that terrible nighttime crash. I would dearly love to believe that this Alice the Kyntons and Jack Winters know is a relative of mine, but Mrs. Kynton said she had been dead for a long time. And how would they know the same person, the Kyntons and Captain Winters, living such different lives?

No, it is merely a very strange coincidence, all of it. I must put it from my mind. I must not let my hopes get too high and my fantasies run away with me. I am in the real world now, and must take reality as it comes.

A Daring Rescue and A Parting of Friends

2008-11-15T21:55:00.002-07:00

Apparently I am in the way and the crew desires me to entertain myself elsewhere, so I shall oblige them, being much more courteous to them than most of them have been to me, and will now put down the events of yesterday’s rescue in my diary, Dear Reader. What happened was this:

As I bundled myself up for my morning exercise yesterday, Mr. Miller communicated to me that we were nearly out of the sandstorm. He advised me, however, to put on my wrap and coat and goggles, as we were not clear yet. Having done so, I accompanied him out onto the deck, where it is true the wind was not as bad as it had been before. I was more silent than usual on our walk for a multitude of reasons--our impending landing in Franklin Bay, what I had learned of Zeb--Mr. Mill--oh, hang it! Zebediah the night before, and what Zebediah himself had "said" to me on our walk when he took my arm to help me up the stairs to my cabin--and Zebediah... well, he was as silent as he always is. Somehow, though, the silence seemed rather more companionable than it had previously. Mr. Miller was the only person on the Royal Erebos that did not make me feel like a captive or a nuisance, or, worse, entertainment.

As we were returning to my cabin, the wind stopped as suddenly as if someone had shut off a switch. We could see blue sky all around us, (except for behind us where the storm still raged) and the bright sun overhead. Mr. Miller smiled, and I laughed at the sheer joy of not having grit blown into my teeth and up my nose every second I was on the deck.

As suddenly as the wind had stopped, another dirigible appeared not far from our starboard side, about on a level with us. Apparently we had not been able to see it in the storm, though it had been quite close. The Erebos swung wildly to port, and we lost altitude as well. I cried out and clung to Zebediah’s arm; he steadied me, and looked around frantically, eyes falling on the other dirigible. Upon the sight of it, he began urging me back to my cabin, holding my elbow, and gesturing for me to hurry. “What is the matter?” I asked. He shook his head. “Is it that other ship? Must we get away from it?” A nod.

I was torn, then. These bad men, this bad ship, would surely flee only the law, and only if they had something to hide. I suspected the cargo carried in the hold had something to do with it, but thought that I might play a part as well. And while I did want to be rescued and Captain Belleclaire to get what he deserved, I was also rather frightened. I suppose I was caught up in the moment, carried away by Zebediah’s fear of capture and the wild swerving of the ship.

Either way, it was clear that I must return to my cabin. Zebediah all but pushed me inside, and the last I saw of him was a very worried expression as he shut my door and locked it.

Nothing happened for several minutes, so I took off my wrap and goggles and hung up the heavy leather coat. I sat on my bed and waited, trying not to chew my nails. Then there was a great THUMP that shook the whole ship, and shouting down on the deck. I looked out my little window, but there was nothing to see but the blur of greyish-tan that was the end of the sandstorm, and tiny specks of black and green and blue below, marking out I know not what: cities, fields, and lakes I suppose.

Then a strong, male voice boomed out as if over a huge speaker, “Stop, in the name of the law!” (Just like in the sequential picture books!) I heard footsteps, with my ear pressed against my door. There was Captain Belleclaire’s voice, and Reva’s, and that of the second mate, all arguing with two other male voices. I thought, then, that we had been boarded, though I wondered how one walks from one ship to another so far up in the sky. (I soon found out, and shall tell you.)

“...weren’t running,” Captain Belleclaire’s voice said, coming nearer my door. “It is only that I suddenly realized, once we were out of the storm, that we had overshot our target, that is to say, flown too far.”

“I see,” said another voice, one unfamiliar to me. “And where are you headed?”

The captain named a city I had never heard of, and the other voice ordered someone named Jacobs to check the itinerary of the Erebos. “One other question for you, Captain Belleclaire,” said the voice, which was now quite close to my door. I stepped back, trembling with fear and excitement. These could be my rescuers!

“I shall answer anything it is in my power to answer,” Belleclaire said, his voice dripping with obsequiousness.

“What is the meaning of the distress signals on both the stern and bow of your ship?” My heart leapt. Someone had seen them!

“Distress signals? I am not aware of any of my crew sending distress signals.” Belleclaire sounded nervous. I smiled.

“One is written just outside a small window at the bow of the ship, painted onto the wood, it seems. The other,” I heard footsteps striding up to my door, “is displayed in the window of this room!” My doorknob moved slightly, but did not turn. “Why is this door locked, Captain?”

“That is... my niece,” said Belleclaire. “She is unwell, if you take my meaning. We are bringing her to hospital. I thought it best we keep her door locked, so she did not do any harm to herself while aboard.”

Infuriated, I stormed back up to the door and shouted through it, “I am not his niece! My name is Bernice Sophronia Philomena Greenwater and I have been kidnapped by--”

There was shouting outside, and my voice was drowned out. I heard bits and pieces: “for her own good!” and “right now, or I swear I’ll,” and “no right to search my...!” And then everything got very quiet and I heard Belleclaire say softly, “No need for that, good fellow, I shall be perfectly cooperative. Here is the key, unlock the door as you wish.” The key turned, my door swung open. I stepped back, looked up, and saw...

Dear Reader, I think I must have swooned! The next thing I remember, I was lying on my bed, moaning and holding the side of my head. There was a bit of a crowd inside, and when I sat up, between heads and shoulders, I saw Zebediah near the open door, arms crossed over his chest, looking very concerned. Then I saw who was standing at the head of my bed, and nearly swooned again! It was Jack Winters, more wonderful than I can ever have imagined him!

“Miss Belleclaire?” he asked, bending over me a little.

“Hello!” I cried, beaming up at him.

“Yes, hello,” he said, frowning. “Are you all right?”

“I’m perfectly lovely! That is to say, wonderful. It’s such a pleasure to meet you!” I held out my hand, and he took it, looking bemused but also a little awkward. Jack Winters held my hand!

“Thank you, lovely to meet you as well,” he murmured. I realized, belatedly, that he was trying to extract his hand, and immediately let go. “Now, is this man your uncle?” he asked, and gestured to Belleclaire, who was standing behind him.

I glared at the captain. “No, he most certainly is not,” I said firmly. “He had me kidnapped and is bringing me to Franklin Bay on the orders of a man he will not name. And also I think you should check the hold, for I’ve reason to believe that he--”

“Yes, Miss,” Jack Winters said. “We’ve found the dye and the gunpowder.” My eyes widened; I had not known it was that bad! “Both will be confiscated, I assure you.”

“And you’ve come to rescue me? You saw my S.O.S.?”

Belleclaire laughed. “Silly girl!” he said, as if speaking to a small child or a particularly stupid puppy. “You are not kidnapped! We are going on holiday, remember? To the nice place in the country!” To Jack, he added, “I told you she was a little, you know,” he tapped the side of his head.

“I am not!” I cried, standing up. That made me a little wobbly, and I held the side of my head again, trying to regain my balance. I felt a hand steadying my elbow, and looked over to see Zebediah beside me, his face impassive. “I am not mad,” I said, glaring at Belleclaire. “I was taken onto this ship against my will, and I very much wish to leave it!”

Before the captain could say a word, Jack Winters turned to face him. “You have already proven yourself untrustworthy by lying about what we would find in your hold,” he said. “I think this young lady should come with me.”

I stepped forward, overjoyed. “Do you mean it, sir?” I asked breathlessly.

“I do,” he said. “ Gather your things.” I did so, with all haste; all I had was my case containing my personal effects, the lovely grey wool coat Belleclaire had given me, the clothes I had worn onto the ship, and the ones currently on my back. I put on the coat and held the case in one hand, the sack with my old clothes in the other.

“I think the captain here should join us,” said Jack Winters. “I have a few more questions to ask him.” He nodded at his men, who came forward to stand on either side of Belleclaire. But before they could take hold of his arms, silver flashed through the air, and they both cried out in pain. I saw Reva with her sword held high and dripping red, a terrifying grin on her face. One of the men fell to the floor, and the other doubled over when Belleclaire brought his knee up into the man’s stomach. A gun fired and I screamed, then was hurried out of the room. I did not realize it was Zebediah that had me until we were stumbling down the stairs onto the deck.

Again, I was terribly torn. Zebediah was my friend, yet he served Captain Belleclaire, my captor. And Winters and his crew had come to rescue me, so I could not go with Mr. Miller. “No!” I cried, “let me go!” I pulled away, but his grip on my arm did not loosen as he pulled me toward the hatch to bring me below deck. “I must go with them, you have to understand!” I shouted, but still he tugged at me.

I fell limp and heavy onto the deck, not knowing what else to do. It was, surprisingly, more difficult to pull me along now that I was not resisting, but lying passively. But he hooked his arms beneath mine from behind and carried me backwards toward the hatch. I kicked and thrashed, and I am ashamed to say that for a moment I saw him only as a pirate who stood in the way of my freedom. Up near my cabin, swords were flashing, shots ringing out. The air was full of gun smoke and shouting, and I could not tell which side was winning and which was losing.

“Let her go!” shouted a man with bright red hair and beard, over a foot taller than me and more than twice as wide, though all muscle. He had a pistol aimed at Zebediah, who froze. I regained my feet and stood, trembling, between him and the man from Winters’ crew. “Please,” I whispered, though I am still not sure with whom I was pleading. Zebediah, to let me go, or the redheaded man (Jacobs, the Tourbillion’s first mate, I later learned) to spare him.

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, all was silent. I took a breath in and let it out. I felt Zebediah’s hands gripping my arms, felt his neck cloth brush my cheek. Jacobs pulled the hammer of his pistol back. I felt Zebediah shift his weight.

A loud BANG made me jump, and the next thing I knew, Zebediah had let go of me. “No!” I screamed, dropping both my parcels and whirling around. Blood, oh, the blood! The sight of so much red on his white clothes terrified me beyond anything I have ever known. I do not remember falling to my knees, but I must have, for next I was holding his hand, staring at the wound in his shoulder, and sobbing. “Why, why could you not have let me go?” I cried. “It is your own fault, you know, you...” I could not speak further until he pulled his hand from my grasp and reached up to touch my cheek. “Zebediah,” I whispered, and I think he must have heard me despite the chaos going on all around us, for he smiled.

“I am sorry,” I told him, though I do not know what I had to apologise for. “I am sorry.” His wound was gushing blood, and I realized how stupid I had been not to stop it up with something. I looked around but saw only my bag of clothes. Not thinking of anything other than that Zebediah’s bleeding must be stopped, I pulled out the first thing--my crumpled white blouse--and pressed it to his shoulder. He winced, but put his hand over mine where I held it, pressing down even though it hurt him.

Two more shots rang out very near, and I ducked, but we were left alone for the time being. It seemed to cause him pain, but he lifted his arm (the one that had not been shot, of course) and placed his fingers lightly over my heart, a look of infinite tenderness in his eyes, even more shockingly blue than usual since his face was so very pale. “Oh, do not say such a thing,” I begged. “You were--are--a great friend to me, and that you must remain.” I think something in my eyes must have betrayed me, though, for he pressed his fingertips more firmly there, looking at me earnestly and again seeming as though he longed to speak.

(I blush to even think it, but I have never had a man’s hand so close to that womanly part of my body, though I was not thinking such at the time, having other things on my mind.)

“Let’s go!” Winters shouted above the din. Someone grabbed my bag from my side, and I felt myself yanked to my feet by someone of great strength. “Come on,” Jacobs boomed in my ear. My bag was thrust into my arms, and I leaned down to pick up my case, but I never looked away from Zebediah til I was hustled too far away from him, and smoke and running people obscured him from my view. I slipped on a pool of blood once, but did not fall. Then I was on a sort of narrow wooden walkway between the ships, with metal rails on either side, thank goodness. I noticed that a pair of clamps had been extended from the Tourbillion and latched onto the Erebos to steady the crossing, but once I was aboard and Jacobs jumped down behind me, the clamps were loosened, the walkway retracted, and the Tourbillion pulled up suddenly, the sound of gunfire ringing out behind us.

I was hurried to Jack’s cabin and left to rest and recover. I am not ashamed to say that I sobbed like a baby for some time, and in writing the account again today, have shed many tears onto these pages, too. It seemed rather exciting in retrospect, but I would not want to live that hour again for anything in the world.

That is enough for today, I think. I must put this away for a time, lest I be overcome again. Goodnight, Dear Reader.

I am in Heaven

2008-11-14T20:44:00.001-07:00

Dear Reader! I am in raptures! I have been rescued from the Royal Erebos by none other than Jack Winters and his crew of the Grand Tourbillion! The very Jack Winters that, some say, won the war for us! The Jack Winters whose image I carry at all times in my wallet! The Jack Winters who is on posters and lunch boxes and the covers of sequential picture books detailing his adventures! I have met him face-to-face and oh! He is more handsome than any image of him I have seen! His teeth are dazzling, his eyes the perfect shade of blue, his hair blond and windswept! The Grand Tourbillion has no guest quarters, so he has given me his cabin! His very own cabin! And has made the sacrifice to sleep below with his crew. I shall describe my rescue later, as I am too excited to make sense right now! Farewell! I am off to explore this flying piece of history, and meet all the people I have read about and dreamt of for so long!

A Storm Outside and A Storm Within

2008-11-13T23:16:00.002-07:00

I awoke this morning before first light, startled out of a fitful sleep by a terrible howling, shrieking sound. I sat bolt upright, heart pounding, and listened, my mind not yet fully able to comprehend what was happening. After a moment, I was awake enough to think rationally, and realized it was only the wind. But what wind! Eventually I noticed that the ship was rocking very slightly, as if it was pushed somewhat off-course and then fought to go back in the right direction.

I lay down, but could not return to sleep. Deciding to try and make use of this time I had, I went over and over the "map" of the ship I now carry in my head, but still could not come up with any plan for an escape. I thought about hiding myself in one of the big crates below decks and waiting for it to be carried off once we landed, but then thought that the crew would surely realize I'd have gone missing and would search for me before unloading the cargo. Also, when I asked Mr. Miller yesterday what would be unloaded when we docked, he only shook his head and communicated that the captain had ordered him not to tell me. Clearly Belleclaire has considered that possibility. Blast him.

Forgive my coarse language, it is just that I feel so very frustrated at times! And as Captain Belleclaire is in charge of this ship and in charge of the plot to kidnap me, all my blame and ire falls on him.

After another hour, I got up and dressed, and by that time it was light. I had begged Mr. Miller for some books the day before yesterday, and was overjoyed when I saw amongst the half-dozen or so he brought, one of the Catherine the Illuminated series! Unfortunately, it was the second book, which I have already read. However, having looked through a couple of books on navigation and dirigibles, and another on botany, of all things, I gave those up and returned to Catherine for about an hour.

The usual time for my breakfast came, then went, with no sign of Mr. Miller. The wind still howled most terribly, and I worried for his well-being for a while, but reminded myself that he was a seasoned airship pirate and was surely just fine. Nonetheless, I was still relieved when he stumbled into my room, practically blown in, along with a quantity of sand and a great gust of wind. He held a single bowl with a cloth wrapped tightly around it so the wind would not blow anything into my breakfast, and wore a very dirty, long coat, and goggles. When he removed the latter, there were two clean circles around his eyes, the rest of his skin being covered in grit and dust, and I stifled a laugh.

His eyes crinkled at the corners in suppressed mirth, for he was surely aware of how he looked, and he took the cloth off of the bowl of boiled oats, setting it before me with an apologetic look. "Couldn't bring the usual tray because of the weather?" He nodded. "Nor coffee." He shrugged. "That's all right, I'll survive. Ah... we will survive, won't we?" I asked with a nervous glance to the door.

Mr. Miller nodded most vigorously, holding a hand out to me and not quite touching my arm, in a gesture of reassurance. He pointed to my window (curtain, as always, closed) then nodded again, waving his hand in dismissal. "You've been through many storms like this one?" Yes. "Well, that is a relief."

The rest of my meal passed mostly in silence, as was usual. When I was finished, I stood up and went to the peg on the wall for my coat, but Mr. Miller stopped me, shaking his head. "Is it really so bad out there that I may not take my walk?" I asked. He nodded. "And you have no spare goggles or protective gear for me to wear?" I raised my chin a fraction, determined to go out today. Mr. Miller sighed. He gestured to my clothes, then to his, which were covered in a layer of dust and sand. "I do not care," I said. "Who is to see me but... mercenaries and pirates?"

The contempt in my tone must have shocked him, or perhaps the words I used, for his took half a step back and shook his head, frowning. "You deny that is what you are?" I asked. He nodded. "So you are all honest men?" I asked rather mockingly. He hesitated, then slowly shook his head, eyes downcast. "I see."

We both stood there for a minute, but I felt sorry if I had hurt his feelings or his sensibilities. "Please let me go out," I said softly. "It is all I have anymore. I look forward to it every morning and evening."

He looked up at me sharply, the shock in his eyes slowly melting into something else. Tenderness? I did not know how to take such a thing. I hoped he only meant it in friendship, for if it was more than that... Well, he had never been anything but a perfect gentleman to me and in my presence, so it did not bear thinking about. I dismissed the thought. He nodded and pointed at his chest: "Me too," he meant. "I look forward to them, too."

I managed a weak smile. "Then let us go," I said firmly, turning away again for my coat to hide my blush.

Again, he stopped me, and communicated that he would return shortly. Ten minutes later he entered my cabin again, arms laden. Before I was allowed out, I was fitted with a long leather coat similar to his, which was several sizes too big for me; a fringed woven shawl that had certainly seen better days, which he had me wrap around my head to cover my hair as well as my mouth and nose so I was just eyes peeking out; and a set of sort of patchwork goggles, which seemed thrown together from whatever happened to be lying around. Pieces of leather were haphazardly glued (I assume) to what appear to be metal bottle caps with the middles cut out, and glass inserted into the holes. The strap is a rather fancy bit of trim that one might use to decorate a hat or the neckline of a gown, though your guess as to why it was used on the goggles, Dear Reader, is as good as mine. And they fasten with a very large hook-and-eye closure at one side. As I prepared myself for my walk, I noted that Mr. Miller's goggles were similar, in that they were made from bits and pieces of this and that.

True to his word, Captain Belleclaire discontinued the use of my tether after the first day, though I was still to be accompanied at all times by a member of his crew when I was not in my cabin. Mr. Miller, once we were on the deck and buffeted brutally by the wind, pointed in a circle all around the ship to draw my attention to the fact that nothing could be seen in any direction because of the amount of dust in the air. He pointed over the rail as well, to tell me that the ground below could not be seen, but I refused to look, to keep up my facade of being afraid of heights.

Another man (the second mate, I think?) was handling the wheels, so we met Captain Belleclaire on the way back to my cabin. "Enjoying the sandstorm, Miss Greenwater?" he asked with a grin. I hope he got dirt in his teeth.

"Can we not fly higher to get out of it?" I asked instead of answering, nearly shouting to be heard over the wind.

"We cannot go much higher than this lest the air become too thin to breathe," he told me. "And the storm would be just as bad lower down. We must simply wait and fly through it."

"Will this delay our journey at all?"

He started to answer, then gestured toward the stern of the ship. "Let us retire to my cabin and converse in more comfort," he said. I had no choice but to obey him, but felt a little better when Mr. Miller followed us. At least I would not be left alone with the captain.

His cabin was very slightly larger than mine, but with much better furnishings. Whereas mine could be compared to a rather nice sort of jail cell, with its rough wooden furniture and lack of any decoration, his was akin to an emperor's bedchamber. There was a large bookcase of leather-bound books, wrought iron sconces on the walls to hold lamps, silk hangings over the bed, which was topped with a down comforter, and a beautifully carved desk/table with four rather dainty chairs pushed up to it. "Please, be seated," said the captain, gesturing to the chairs. Still catching my breath from being out in the wind, I removed the shawl and goggles, then my coat. Mr. Miller took them all from me and hung them on the coat rack (which, I noted, was bolted to the floor as the bed and table were).

"To answer your question, this will not delay our arrival in Franklin Bay by much." Bellclaire, too, shed his coat, and Mr. Miller took his things and hung them up as well, before unbundling himself. "We must go slower through this storm, as we cannot see very far ahead, but should not make port more than a few hours later than we would have had the storm not come up." He pulled out the only chair with arms on it for himself. I sat across the table from him, and Mr. Miller pulled a third chair a little ways back from the table to sit in.

"Why, if I might ask," I began, bringing up something I had been pondering for a couple of days, "has Mr. Miller been 'assigned' to me? Is he not needed as the other crew members are? Couldn't they... take turns?" I glanced over at him as I spoke, sorry that I could not ask him personally.

"An interesting question," the captain said. "Mr. Miller is unlike most of the rest of the crew in that he knows very little about how to run my ship."

"Then why did you take him on?"

Captain Belleclaire smiled rather bemusedly, as he often did in my presence. Infuriating. "Take him on," he echoed. "When he joined my crew, I could not have turned him away if I wanted to." Mr. Miller sat forward then, fixing the captain with a hard look. "But," the captain said, "that is, perhaps, a story for another day." Mr. Miller sat back again, looking somewhat relieved. "As for the matter of why he is your... keeper... Well, Mr. Miller has different skills than the rest of my crew. Even if he does not know a propeller from a rudder."

Mr. Miller looked as though he would beg to differ, but of course could not say so.

"What sort of skills?" I asked. Mr. Miller leaned forward again, and gave the captain a pleading look, but Belleclaire continued anyway.

"Anything that must be done covertly. Your kidnapping, for example," he smiled. "He is silent, and... Ha! Silent. Of course he is silent." He chuckled at his own joke, but I didn't think it was very funny. "He can get through locked doors and windows, and go unseen and unnoticed where others cannot."

"What, you mean like a spy?" I asked.

"Spy, yes. Thief, assassin. Whatever is needed."

"Assassin?" I repeated, my eyes wide. Mr. Miller was a murderer? And I had taken my meals with him, traversed the ship with him, for days, alone, trusting him? I looked over at him to see he had gone as white as a sheet. He stared straight ahead, no expression on his face, but clearly Captain Belleclaire's words had upset him. After a moment, he looked at me, his eyes unutterably sad.

"Ah, you did not wish her to know that?" Belleclaire asked. "Well, she will be gone by tomorrow evening, so you needn't concern yourself. If she wishes to dine alone and be accompanied on her walks by another crewman, why, that is her choice."

Mr. Miller looked at me, his expression somewhere between pleading and sorrowful. I could not answer him, unable to admit that I would miss the company of a murderer, unable to admit that I did not wish to dismiss him. I looked down at my lap instead, silent.

Belleclare, the devil, laughed again. "Ah, you will miss her, Zebediah?" He looked at me. "She will miss you too, I think." He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his mustache.

"How dare you?" I demanded, on my feet so quickly I nearly toppled my chair. "How dare you presume such a thing? You don't know anything about me, and I don't think you know anything about Zeb--Mr. Miller, either." Too late, the slip had been made, to my shame. Growing, I am sure, more and more red in the face, I continued. "What on earth would make you think I had any sort of feelings for a pirate and a killer?" I shot Mr. Miller a hateful look, and indeed I think I did hate him for a moment, for deceiving me, leading me to believe he was a good and kind man rather than what he truly was. "I cannot wait to get off this horrible, filthy... ugly ship!" I shouted as I started toward the door, trying my best to wound Captain Belleclaire in some way, for I knew how much pride he took in his Erebos.

His laughter followed me to the door, but the moment I yanked it open, I was hit with a blast of wind. I had forgotten about the storm, but I did not have far to go. My own room was only a few yards down the raised walkway. I struggled to slam the door behind me, but gave up after several seconds, for I could still hear Belleclaire's laughter. Letting the wind whip the door inwards so it hit the wall, I stomped down the walkway to my own door, which Mr. Miller had thankfully left unlocked. With some effort, I managed to close it, but unfortunately could not lock it from the inside. Fighting tears and brushing grit from my clothes and hair, I sat down on my bed and forced myself to take deep breaths. Then I wrote here the happenings of this morning in an effort to sort out my feelings. It did not help; I am as torn as ever. I feel ill. I shall try and distract myself by reading for a while.

_____

Mr. Miller came with my lunch, as usual. The storm had died down a little, and he was not so bundled up as before. Once he set down my tray (having firmly tucked a cloth over the plate and pot of coffee), he made to leave, but I stopped him. "Please," I called out, hardly knowing what I was doing, or why. "Don't... don't go yet." He did stop, though he didn't turn around. His shoulders, I could see, were tense, his hands in fists at his sides. "I am sorry for what I said this morning." He shrugged and shook his head, his back still to me. "Is it true?" I asked. "Have you... have you killed people?"

It seemed like a long time before he turned around. Looking into my eyes, he nodded once. "Bad people?" I asked. He nodded again, though more hesitantly. "Not all of them were bad, were they?" He put his hands out, palms up. "You were under orders, I understand. But you didn't have to follow them."

Mr. Miller came a little closer; his boots seemed impossibly loud on the floorboards. I had never seen him look more like he wanted to speak, so frustrated and angry with himself. He glanced around the room, then made a writing gesture. "Paper?" Yes. I went to my case, but still could not bring myself to tear a page from this diary. "All I have are these," I said, holding up the periodicals. He frowned and pointed at my diary. "That... that is personal," I said, putting my hand over the top of it. He nodded and sighed, then hung his head down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. I had never seen him so... vulnerable.

I felt the extent of my own selfishness then, and brought the diary to him, holding it out toward him. "Here, it's all right," I said, opening it up to the last page. He just shook his head and pushed it back to me. I let my hands drop, the diary clutched in one, then returned it to my case along with the periodicals. When I looked up, Mr. Miller gestured for me to come near him. He wrote on the table with his fingertip, as he had when teaching me about the names for different parts of the ship. "COMPLICATED," he spelled out on the wood, then drew a line underneath where he had just written to emphasis it.

"Yes, I thought it would be," I said quietly, and sat down on the edge of my bed. "The way you came to be on this ship, and why you follow Captain Belleclaire's orders." He nodded.

After a minute, he pushed my tray toward my side of the table, and I stood up to go to the table and eat. "When do you have your meals?" I asked.

He held both hands out in front of himself, then moved one hand over to his left. "Before?" I asked, after thinking for a moment. Yes. "Before... you bring me mine?" He nodded again.

I made up my mind to do as I should have all along: to treat him with kindness and respect, since he had never shown me anything but. His past offences had nothing to do with our relationship, not really. "You could bring your food here, too," I said, "and dine with me."

A small smile spread across his lips, and he looked down at the floor. But then he nodded, and took the chair across from me.

I didn't know what else to say, so I simply ate my meal, then bid him farewell as he gathered my dishes. "I shall see you for supper?" I asked. Yes. "And then... we shall take our walk?" Another little smile appeared as he nodded again, then started toward the door. "Mr. Miller?" He stopped and turned back around. "Ze--Zebediah." The sound of his given name seemed to light him up from the inside, and I couldn't help the smile I gave at the sight of it. "You have been... my only friend on this journey. The Captain needles and annoys me, and the others ignore me." I am sure they were under orders to do so, since one wouldn't usually think a kidnapped young woman would remain unmolested on a ship full of pirates. I was thankful that Belleclaire gave those orders, though. "I... I am glad of it. Of your kindness. I know we shall part ways tomorrow night when we land, and I shall never see you again, but know... know that I..." Goodness, I did not know what I was trying to say!

"Bernice." I knew what his mouth said, though no sound came out. He smiled at me, a real smile, showing straight white teeth. Then he gave a little bow, and left me.

Oh dear.

Doubts and Fears

2008-11-12T22:16:00.001-07:00

No sign of a rescue still, but I did learn some good news. (At least, I am trying to see it as "good.") The Captain told me this morning when I saw him on my hour's exercise that we would be arriving in Franklin Bay the day after tomorrow. If I have not been saved by then, there might be some hope of escaping once we have landed and disembarked. I know not what I might do, then, but I do still have all my money (that which I did not spend on my train ticket, now half-wasted as I was taken in the middle of my journey). My trunk, regretfully, is still on the Arabella Genevieve, but the Kyntons were so good to me that I am sure they will keep it for me until I am able to contact them.

I do worry about what they thought, when I did not come back to the train! I hope they did not waste time and delay their passengers by looking for me, as there would have been no use. They had little reason to search me out; I was merely a transient friend of their eldest daughter. I do think, sometimes, that they might have raised the alarm, at least. Given my description to the law in Sun City, and said I'd gone missing. Not that it would do much good, as I was soon hundreds (thousands? I do not know) of feet above the city, then miles and miles away from it, in different clothes and with different hair.

I do not know what to think now, Dear Reader. I have settled into a routine on this ship, but in two days' time, if I am not very quick and clever, I shall be delivered to man who paid to have me kidnapped, and I have no idea why! No one has ever heard of me, no one would have any reason to do anything with or to me! I start shaking when I think about it, and must turn my thoughts to other things in order to stop. I have been sleeping very poorly all the time I have been on the Royal Erebos, and am therefore tired and listless during the day, easy to anger and become annoyed, which is not fair to Mr. Miller (though I feel no remorse for lashing out at the captain).

Part of me will be glad when this journey is over, but mostly I am terrified of what will occur at its conclusion.

Taking the Air and Another Bit of Hope

2008-11-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

I was taken out for exercise today, practically like a dog would be taken for a walk, complete with leash. When Mr. Miller came with my breakfast, I begged him to ask the captain if I might leave my room for a time. He returned about an hour after he had departed with my empty tray, and held the door open, gesturing at me to follow him.

Delighted, I sprang up from my chair and walked quickly toward the door, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm, then reached for my coat, which was hanging on a peg on the wall. "Oh, of course," I said, and held out my hand for it, but he already had it open in both hands, as if to help me on with it. I wasn't quite sure how to react to that, having never had anyone help me on with my coat since I was too small to do it myself. "I... er, thank you," I said, and turned around with my arms held back. I struggled with the sleeves for a second, but then the coat slid smoothly up my arms and settled on my shoulders. "Thank you," I mumbled again, looking down as I buttoned my coat, then preceded him out the door and onto the deck.

Mr. Miller closed the door behind us, and before I had gone three steps, the captain was suddenly before me. "Good morning, Miss Greenwater," he said, touching the brim of his cap.

"Captain Belleclaire," I said curtly, dropping the most miniscule of curtseys.

"I have decided to permit you an hour of exercise every morning and evening. Zebediah related to me that you were growing tired of your cabin, and I have no objection to you taking a turn around the deck now and then, both for your health and your enjoyment."

"Thank you for your hospitality," I said coldly, not looking at him.

He only laughed. "So stubborn! It is because of this that I must make you the following offer: if you promise not to try and escape, you may roam my ship freely as long as a member of my crew accompanies you at all times. But if I or my crew ever have reason to believe you will break your promise, you will be confined to your cabin for the duration of our journey. In addition, you will be tethered to said crewmember--Zebediah, at this point--until you have proven yourself worthy of my trust."

"Tethered?" I asked, at last looking at him. (Unlike most men, whom I had to look up to, I could look Captain Belleclaire straight in the eyes due to his height, or rather, lack thereof. For some reason this made me feel a little better about the power he held over me.)

"Indeed," he said with a nod. I saw Mr. Miller move from the corner of my eye, and when I looked over at him, I saw he was drawing a thin rope from one of the many pockets in his trousers.

"You said yourself there was nowhere I could hide!" I cried. "There is no need for this! I have given you my word that I shall not do harm to myself, nor shall I run away!"

"That you have," Belleclaire smiled, "but how am I to trust your word?"

"How am I to trust yours?" I countered. "I have done all you asked! I have worn the clothes given me, I have allowed that woman to dye my hair!" The thought of that brought tears to my eyes, for every time I caught sight of myself in the tiny mirror in my cabin, I still had to remember that the face I saw was mine, though surrounded by hair of a deep mahogany red. "I have not put up a fuss, or shouted, or cried!" Though at the moment, I was very close to doing all three.

That same bemused smile was still on his lips, just visible beneath his mustache. "Humour me today, and we shall see about tomorrow. Mr. Miller?" He nodded to Zebediah, then turned on his heel and disappeared.

To his credit, Mr. Miller looked quite apologetic. As if to show that he disapproved of this idea, he tied one end of the rope around his own middle first, then stepped toward me. "Must I?" I asked, my voice nearly breaking. He nodded. "You trust me, don't you?" He hesitated a second, then nodded, but stepped closer nonetheless. He was under orders, after all. I sighed and raised my arms so he could thread the rope around my back, then tie it in front. The knot was loose enough that it did not put me in any discomfort, but not so loose that I could wriggle out of it. It also seemed very complicated, but before I could study it further, he moved it around to the small of my back so I could not see it. He then made a "carry on" gesture, but now I hardly felt like walking at all.

"This is terribly undignified," I muttered. "Not that a captive has much dignity to begin with, I suppose."

Mr. Miller gave a very small smile, though I could not tell if it was sympathetic or mocking, and made the same "let's go" gesture again.

"Would you give me a tour of the ship?" I asked. "I suppose I might as well learn something while taking the air." He nodded, and turned around to show me the little area where my room was housed.

Rather than related the exact events of my tour, I shall instead describe the ship myself, now that I have had time to process it and build a sort of map in my mind.

The ship is in three levels, or three and a half, counting the bit at the rear. My cabin is there, on a level raised somewhat above the deck, as well as the captain's cabin, and what looks to be a formal dining room, I suppose in case the captain entertains guests. Directly below is a kitchen, which I think is called the galley, where the crew cooks and eats for themselves. Next to it, beneath my room and the captain's, is a storage room for food and linens. (I was not previously aware that I shared a wall with the captain, and shall henceforth be very careful and quiet, especially if I am ever plotting something at night again.)

Our rooms are at the rear of the ship; at the front is a little cabin full of all sorts of controls and dials and switches, as well as three wheels, one large one in the center, and two smaller ones on either side. The cabin is glassed-in so one can see all around from inside it. Between that room and my cabin is the main deck, with many supports which hold the big gas-filled balloon which keeps us aloft. The reason I can hear the sound of motors in my room so well is because the huge propellers which send us forward through the air are attached to the rear of the ship.

I have just remembered that the rear is called the stern and the front is called the bow; alternately, aft and fore. Mr. Miller conveyed as much to me by "writing" on the deck of the ship with his finger at these points, spelling the words out, and also at both sides; when facing the bow, port is left and starboard is right.

Below the deck are sleeping quarters for the crew. There is really very little privacy, only hammocks strung between the supports keeping the roof (deck) up, with an aisle down the center. There were several men asleep in their hammocks, and I assumed they were resting during the day because they were on duty at night, which Mr. Miller confirmed for me when I asked him in a whisper. There is a closed-off space at the fore end of the sleeping quarters; Mr. Miller pantomimed showers, and the flushing of a toilet to convey what it was for.

The bottommost level is for storage: all the food that can be kept long-term, from which the smaller stores in the kitchen are taken; barrels of water; and many crates and tanks and various other containers which hold I do not know what. Probably whatever they are smuggling when they are not kidnapping orphaned girls.

It was an interesting challenge, going up and down the narrow ladders leading from one level to the next and being tethered to Mr. Miller at the same time, but he was a gentleman about it, for all that he is a mercenary or a pirate. When going down, he allowed me to descend first, and when going up, he let me go second, as I am in skirts and it would be improper to do otherwise. I had to keep close behind him (or he close behind me) because of the length of the rope, but we did manage it.

I thanked him heartily for the tour once he had brought me back to my room and untied me, and he nodded and gave a very formal bow, which impressed and shocked me so much that I did not say another word until he had shut and locked the door behind himself. I think he must have had some honest occupation before joining the crew of the Royal Erebos, one that taught him excellent manners. From the way he helped me on with my coat, and the way in which he displays my meals thrice daily, I think he may have been a butler or a gentleman's gentleman. I wonder how he ever came to join a pirate crew.

_____

It is night now, and I have risked another attempt for my rescue. On my evening stroll about the ship, once again tethered to Mr. Miller, I asked to be taken below decks again, claiming that life onboard a dirigible fascinated me, and I wanted to attempt some sketches of various places on board. I made a show of studying the hammocks strung between the supports, and examining the small piles of personal belongings and clothes against the far walls. (No one was in the room but us, as the night crew was already awake and working, and the day crew was likely eating supper or playing cards, or whatever a ship's crew does at the end of their shift.)

After a while, Mr. Miller acted as though he were drawing on his hand (or a tablet) with an invisible pen, and nodded toward the stern of the ship, to ask if I wanted to return for my sketchbook. "Oh no, that is quite all right," I said. "I would like to work on my powers of memory, and see if I can accurately depict the place without seeing it before me." He nodded, and continued to follow me as I nosed around.

Once I had reached the bow end of the ship, where the water closet was, I asked to be allowed in, saying it couldn't wait for me to return to the stern of the ship and my cabin. Mr. Miller knocked on the door and listened, then opened it and peeked in. He nodded, since it was empty, and began to untie me, though not without giving me a significant look, first. "I promise I will not try anything," I told him, and he smiled and nodded, as if to say he knew I would not.

However, I lied to him. As I had imagined, there was a small window above the row of toilets, which I managed to open with very little sound. I had thought about bringing a paper with another "S.O.S." on it, but thought it would be torn off with the wind. Instead, I had brought my bottle of precious ink. Knowing that someone would notice if I used my fingers to paint the letters, I had actually cut off a bit of my hair that afternoon (from the back, and underneath, so it would not be noticeable) and tied it to the wrong end of a pen with a bit of thread. It was a messy brush, and had already begun to fall apart a little in my pocket, but it served its purpose. By standing on the back of a toilet, I was able to lean out the window a little and see to paint the letters on the outside of the ship. I did get a little ink on my hands, but resolved to keep them in my pockets til I returned to my room and could scrub them well. I flushed the stained hair and thread down the toilet when I was through, hid both bottle and pen in my pocket, and came back out to Mr. Miller.

Now I have distress signals both at the fore and the aft of the ship. We have passed several other dirigibles on our journey, but none were very close. Still, I hold out for hope of a rescue. It is the only thing I can do now.

Supper and A One-sided Conversation

2008-11-10T20:56:00.001-07:00

Nothing of interest happened for the remainder of the day yesterday, nor has anything much happened today. The captain did not return for me as he said he would, and I do not think he intends to answer my questions at all! I was right, that first day, to say I did not trust his word.

I have found out one interesting thing. Or perhaps it is a frightening thing. I do not know anymore. My definition of "frightening" has changed after being kidnapped by a crew of what I have come to think of as airship mercenaries or pirates. For what else can they be, if they hire themselves out to kidnap poor orphan girls for the benefit of wealthy men, and all of them in such fine clothes as well? Such men (and woman) could not come by the wealth honestly, I am certain.

The interesting and/or frightening thing is this: I have found out who my meal-bringer is, the bald man dressed in plain clothes. He appears to be about thirty years of age, always wears a dirty-looking, cream-coloured cloth tied around his neck, and he squints most of the time, though that might be because I have refused to let anyone open my curtain for light. Of course they think it is because of my fear of heights, but I know it is so anyone else who is flying up here might see my distress message and come rescue me!

He still has not spoken, but now I know it is because he cannot speak. I asked him why he did not say anything, each time he came to bring my meals, yet he never replied in any way until he brought tonight's supper. In answer, he set down my tray and untied the cloth from around his neck, revealing a thick ugly scar stretching across his throat in a jagged line. I cried out at the sight of it and put a hand over my mouth. "Oh! I am so sorry," I said, for even if he was an airship pirate and had kidnapped me, whatever had been done to him to create that awful scar and leave him unable to speak must have been terrible!

In answer, her merely shrugged, then took the cloth off my supper and started to leave.

"Please stay!" I begged, on my feet before I knew what I was doing. "I am so lonely here! I've nothing to do and the hours drag by so awfully!"

He hesitated, tying the cloth around his neck again, then held up a finger to say "Just a moment." He left, but returned a few minutes later. "Did you have to ask permission?" He nodded. "And Captain Belleclaire didn't have anything for you to do?" He nodded again.

Unsure of how to carry on, I invited him to sit in the chair opposite mine at the table, which he did after I was seated. A little shocked that a pirate and a bad man would have such manners, I picked up my knife and fork. "Have you eaten?" I asked him. He nodded again.

All was silent for a time as I ate and drank. (True to Captain Belleclaire's word, coffee flows like water on the ship, and I have now become accustomed to drinking it with every meal. There is a pitcher of water and a glass in my room, but the ritual of pouring the coffee and adding sugar and milk has become a soothing little routine, something I can hang onto in the midst of this chaos.)

I avoided staring at his throat as well as I could, and once I was finished, I smiled at him. "Thank you for sitting with me." He gave another little shrug. "Have you been on the ship long?" He held up three fingers. "Three... years?" He nodded yes. "And how do you like your... work?"

He held out his hand, palm down, and tipped it side to side in a "so-so" gesture, though he nodded his head as if to say, "It's not all bad."

"How did you come to--I'm sorry, that would probably require some explanation." He nodded in agreement. "Some other time, then."

As I was finished, he put the dishes back on the tray, then stood and picked it up.

"Wait!" I cried again. "What... what is your name? So I may call you by it. I am Miss Bernice Sophronia Philomena Greenwater. Miss Greenwater, I mean," I said, and held out my hand.

He set the tray down and shook my hand, then looked about the room. "Pen and paper?" I asked, and he nodded. I got into my case and removed my fountain pen. Having no paper besides what is in my diary, I tore a scrap off the back page of one of the periodicals, and brought it to him.

He took both from me, and bent over the table to write in the margin. When he stood up, he handed back the pen, then the scrap of paper. On it was written in bold, all capital-letters, "ZEBEDIAH MILLER."