This writing was meant to help me clarify my thoughts, but I don’t feel clarified.
Rose D. Thorburn.
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September 25th, 1939
These words are my own for me alone and nothing I write here is meant to be binding.
Dear Diary,
I don’t know what to do.
I had no chance to write, for I was watched closely, and I had no privacy until now. I tried, but I couldn’t secure the book before they had a chance to use it. They called a goblin to them, and the ritual gave it power to attack. Minnie suffered the brunt of it, and the rest of us were caught.
The police seem to think Herb and his friends as responsible. I was confused at first, but now I think it makes a kind of sense. Boys, a fraction too young to go to war. They intruded on a girl’s school, and they make for ready suspects when Minnie is hollowed out, left with only a vacant stare, unresponsive and unmoving but for the monotonous rocking of her body. Her body was untouched, but that doesn’t count for enough.
When the books do tell of evil things being loosed, they often make it exciting. The mission is a rescue, a race against time. Here, three or four lives were utterly ruined, and they may never find out why. They were given no chance, except to leave dangerous things be. A practitioner could have done more to help, but I am more a novice than a full fledged wielder of power. I caught the goblin, I kept the scene clear. I was there when police arrived to answer the screams, and now I am a witness.
I still I don’t understand it, and I don’t know what my place in this is supposed to be.
The books say the ignorant may rewrite their own memories. Perhaps they will blame themselves. Perhaps Herb and his friends will convince themselves they were responsible. That strikes me as being nearly as horrifying as anything that happened to Minnie.
They may instead choose to let their recollection of what happened to Minnie fade from their minds, a curious incident they don’t let themselves dwell on.
I just sat with my pen poised over paper for long enough I needed to dip my pen again. It’s more horrifying still, but it’s horror I feel on Minnie’s behalf. I think it’s the scariest thing I can imagine. Dying and having your existence erased from the world. To be painted over and forgotten.
It’s my first time facing the aftermath of a situation like this. Removed from the books. It gnawed at me every day the girls and I were confined to the rooms on the top floor of the dormitory, while I waited to talk to police, and the entire way home. It eats at me still.
A small blessing that it was a goblin of no particular status or power. It could have been far worse.
I expected the usual sort of punishment from my father.
I did not expect my mother, returned from a year-long trip, to meet me in front of the house.
Her first question was after my welfare. I told her I was well, but that the police might reach out to ask more questions, and that I might be asked to Montreal to attend court.
Her second question was about the Lord of Montreal. I assured her I left things on good terms.
Her third question, of course, was about her books.
I assured her the books were well, showing her each of the texts I’d taken with me.
With that, she left to return to her study, leaving me with her detestable snake and with Father. Even now, as I write this, the house has a smell, very like the aroma in that scene I stumbled on with Minnie and the rest, that had unsettled me so much.
Ampelos was staring at me, and even though that snake face doesn’t show a damned hint of an expression, I could tell he knew, as though he read my mind. His every movement mocked me.
It feels like there’s always the group, and then there’s me, standing apart.
Ampelos is my mother’s familiar, so he is her ally. My father is, of course, my mother’s partner.
And then there is me.
I think, writing this, I have settled on how I feel. Mortified. It’s a good word.
I cannot make another mistake like I did, but I can’t cover every avenue by myself. I’m too young to take a familiar for life, and I have no friends here.
I was home, and I felt more homesick than ever. I still do, writing this.
Ampelos knew all this, and he silently mocked me. My father was in a good mood, but I didn’t hear his words and I think my silence annoyed him.
He was upset over the girl that the goblin attacked, that I’d let the book out of my sight. He said it was my responsibility.
I was angry, and I think both of us were a little surprised at how much emotion came out. I said a lot of things, and I was careful to keep my word, but I don’t remember much of it.
I blamed him, because making friends was hard before, but impossible once I became a practitioner.
I told him the truth. That I was given the responsibility too soon. Other families don’t let children have powers. I’m sixteen, but I’ve had powers for almost half of my life.
And then I swore. I swore I wouldn’t ever make my children go through this. I would let them lead lives untouched by all of this.
Never have I seen him react like he did. As if he’d heard me and he actually listened.
Ampelos was still there, smug.
I don’t know why I did it, but I took hold of Ampelos’ tail, seized a letter opener from the nearest shelf, and I stabbed him, fixing the tail to the arm of the loveseat. I ran, before my father or mother could catch me.
As I said, mortified. I know I have responsibilities. I’ve done irreperable damage by swearing an emotional oath. One I’ll have to keep or be forsworn.
I know I’ll have to go back and bow my head, accept my due punishment. It’s well after dark, and writing is getting harder as even moonlight is harder to come by. I’m sitting out of sight, using my bookpack as a seat, but trouble is sure to find me. I almost hope it will.
I don’t know what to do,
Rose D. Thorburn.
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September 25th, 1939
Dear Diary,
I’m not going to write the bit at the beginning. I know there is no use in it. It doesn’t protect me or do anything. I’ve known for a good while, and right now feels like a good time to make a change. I’m fairly certain I never made a promise, more because my father wouldn’t have exacted one from me than because I remember anything that well.
I’m not sure if I should write this down, but when I sit here, muddy and bleeding in spots, scuffed and bruised, I think of Minnie, and I think I want to preserve as much of myself as I can. Even the gory bits.
I found trouble. Aimon Behaim. Years older than me, visiting home while an injury heals. An enemy.
He mocked me, following me, and it took me minutes to realize why he wasn’t doing more. My mother was back, and he was scared.
I called him on it, and I offended his pride. He teased me, a working of spirits to bring raindrops down from leaves overhead, and I retaliated by throwing down the clay doll I keep Arsepint inside, giving an order to attack. Something of an overreaction.
I didn’t think that a soldier might be carrying a firearm.
I had to order Arsepint away before he could kill my oldest servant, and Aimon closed the distance, and pressed the gun to my head. I spat in his face, he grabbed me by the hair, and we fought. I dug my fingernails into his bandages, he tried to throw me over the edge of grass so I might fall in the lake, and I pulled him after me.