A neat and measured scrawl drifts along the parchment in easy strokes--well-practiced, it is a hand fond of written correspondence. At times, it's perfection gives way to a touch of carelessness, as the thoughts relayed grow in their intensity. Pinned to the entry is a cluster of four dried marigolds.
Dearest journal of mine,
I have a confession to make. One which I fear, had you human ears and a human mind, might turn even your heart against me. What luck, then, that you are only pages, for I am certain to bear the shame alone should any other come upon this knowledge!
They should think of me a fallen woman, loose about my laces... But, dear journal, ‘twas the festival that did it! The hedge maze is a world all its own, with its drinks and revelry—a winding maze and an addled haze that would warp even the most stalwart of hearts. (Although you, of anyone, knows best that mine is none so moral...) Even now I am hesitant, and perhaps you might think me a fool, dear journal—Were I a woman of little wealth, I should consider this great sport, but alas! My status is my source of shame, and I have as good as pressed mine own breast to my opponent’s blade, and begged to be run through.
Arthur Hazelwood would bear no shame were our revels to be revealed, for indeed it was my own mind which betrayed me, and conceived to challenge him. After an hour-long parley, in which many accusations of rakish or wanton nature were made (as much the fault of our drink as the fault of our motives), I proposed a race. He accepted, on the condition that I might be caught should he outrun me. I had won our previous debate on man’s honesty, and felt overbold, putting my speed to poor use—tormenting the lost man in the hedges rather than seizing my opportunity for an escape. Had it been any day but a festival day, I would have known better. But I suppose that within each uncommon person there is still a fox or hare, longing to be set loose for the hunt. And, as much as I may be loath to admit it, dear journal, I was glad to be caught in his maw.
Stars, how can I even deign to write such words down? This town shall make a harlot of me yet! The very memory of that hot afternoon mortifies me beyond belief. Yet, I cannot keep my mind from wandering back... No man has ever kissed me so, journal mine! You, of all, know this well. Tackled to the ground and pinned like a rabbit in a trap—I blush to even recall such things.
I shall end my story here. Such positions as these are hardly helpful to one in my position, and I must not spill secrets without purpose. This man has made a mess of my mind, and I feel so great a fool. Already I have become distracted from my own tasks at hand, and for whom? None other than the sole bane of my existence. Never again shall I look fondly upon the Hazelwoods. (Stars, if only that were true!)
I must bid you farewell, now, my dear confidante. But trust that I shall mar your pages in some other burst of frenzy before too long.
