cesistya

Do you know what it’s like to be afraid of yourself? To be afraid of what you might do?

Entry the ninth.

Since last I wrote, I was called upon to assist in the treatment of lingering lung-fever, age-related cognitive decline, commotion caused by shaking of the brain, and a minor leg break. All of these cases have had in them their lessons for me — but, for certain, the one we are most concerned with at present is that of the consumptive, Master George.

Entry the seventh — though a paltry one, for I only wish to quickly communicate my concerns about the treatment of Miss Rue.

I understand well your inclination to assume that Rue's troubles are all in the mind, horrors and fantasies planted by some Woman who addled her with herbs to compel her service. And I shall not contest the fact that Rue is disturbed, at times irrational, and is frequently antisocial in behavior.

Entry the fourth.

I will first say that I am very sorry that my intrusion, the one occasion I did not think to knock, was timed so poorly. I hope nothing ill comes of your wound, or otherwise.

“Now again, through the next hole…like that…now pick up a loop- No, the other way. Pull through the first two…you’re getting it, now the sec- good!” The small fingers moved as Sareva had directed, the young girl working slowly as she practiced. “Your treble crocheting is starting to look more uniform.”

The last few nights I have been able to sleep again some. Maybe it's just how plum wore out I have gotten, with tending the stables, restocking all its supplies, my sword training, and my journeys up to Hengstacer for lessons. That's starting to settle down though, now I'm caught up, more or less, on resupply. Tomorrow morning I get the last thing the stable's running out of, a few sacks of dried peas, plus one extra sack to make up for that they missed the date they promised for to deliver it.

There's a little bit of good news, two things actually, but I feel almost too tired to celebrate them.