10 January

I have much to write, and far too little time to do it. My excursions in the cold have proven my undoing, and if I'm to save any of these notes for whoever might find use of them in the future, I'll need to get scribbling quickly. How unfortunate that the cold makes pitiful use of one's fingers!

After my final meeting with the dying Reverend Barnes, I promised myself I would visit my house and unearth for good the bones of the past residents. How peculiarly unlucky of me, to have been settled into the one home in all of England where the doctor would send his wives off to die! I felt quite keenly for Atticus, who had been unfortunate enough to dig the graves that nourished the soil my dear Evie had dug around in. It was a most peculiar situation all around, I should say. Something sinister guides our actions, and I cannot help but wonder what God wants any of us to know by placing us in these horrible positions at these horrible times.

I'm losing track of my own thoughts! The garden: Lord DeCourt was kind enough to escort me to my home, though I suspect he joined partially to see how I was living before I came into the company of Evelyn and the doctor. The first sight of my small home gave him a start once we drove up to its meagre lawn, since demolished and covered by the severe storms. Just barely visible were the fences Evelyn had hammered in place around the garden, lone metal bars that shivered and knocked together with each gust of wind. Digging would surely be impossible in such conditions, and I gave up at once the idea of finding any remains. Perhaps I could show the Lord my attic, instead, and reveal the presence of the bed where another woman had once lived, rejected by the very man who'd doomed her to death in the first place.

As the Lord creaked his way upstairs (very nearly making more noise than the poor roof on the smaller third floor), I rummaged through the kitchen in the pitiful hope of a small meal, and found that the rats had been graciously avoiding the frost in the comforts of my pantry. A sea of squeaks and screams erupted from the flour bags as we all fled at our respective presences and I soon gave up the idea of a meal, as well. That which didn't currently possess a cold rodent had been chewed through, anyway.

Concerned for what was left in my house (how very long it felt, since I had slept in its comforting arms), I sneezed my way around to inspect the damage the cold and the rats had inflicted upon it. The couch by the window was no longer a reasonable place to relax and write. Nothing was safe from the rats, it seemed! Stuffing had come leaking out of the arms, taken to whatever lair the rats hid in, and the cushions, the cushions!

Leaving my couch for another day, I traipsed upstairs to find the Lord staring strangely at the desk in the attic. Snow had collapsed part of the roof, and he looked an angel in the falling light, his own pale hair and skin glimmering in his impromptu shower. Upon hearing my entering the room, he tapped his cane on the ground and sighed.

"You must be drawn to tragedy as a moth to flame, Ms. Peterson!"

"What prompts you to say so?" I ducked into the room and shivered, looking sadly at the desk. A small clump of snow had begun to grow where a candle once stood. The drawer Evie and I had pulled out so long ago was also filled with the cold, white fluff of the sky, drowning anything we may have missed.

"Everywhere you've the misfortune of moving to in the country, someone's dying, dead, or well on their way." He pulled me close and pat my head, reminding me very much of my father. I leaned into him and began to sniffle. How very different this would all be if I was home, if I had never left and simply hacked my way to death before inflicting this poor country with my presence. As we stood there, I was struck with the idea that we were perhaps gravestones ourselves, the only markers of lives past, lives lived and lost. What a curious pair of graves we were! The Lord leaned on his cane, bones creaking and knocking together in the violence of the cold; me, sneezing and sniffling against his arm, only my hair a natural barrier against the frost. I could only hope, as any more evidence revealing the true nature of those we had tangled ourselves up in was lost to time and weather, that we did not leave behind any horrid mysteries for others to solve, that we didn't spread the curse of becoming gravestones to anyone else.

Since the snow damage was too severe to discover much more, the Lord and I made our way back to the carriage and then the inn, where we both fell into our respective beds, complaining of fevres. I write this piece of my entry from within a sea of blankets and sheets, though I'll be quick to admit the futility of trying to keep warm. I simply can't seem to retain any heat; my lungs burn with each inhalation; my eyes water with the very effort of being. Mr. Bakersfield has brought me plenty of bowls of soup and several pots of tea, and even a warm pan for my feet, but none of it makes any sort of lasting impression on me. I dread the idea of being trapped here (as nice as the inn smells and as welcoming as the wooden structure is). Shuffling his way into my room an hour or so ago, Lord DeCourt looked nearly as miserable as I felt, and I could only look sadly at his cherry-red nose and his own watering eyes - what had I done to him?

Overcome with emotion upon taking in his rather pitiful state (he closely resembled one of the rats I'd found in my pantry, a little white one that had not made it to the safety and comfort of the flour yet, and was squeaking quietly in a wet puddle of his own making), I began at once to cry for him, my voice breaking with every sob. He did nothing to console me or dissuade me from weeping, but only sat close and held my hand, offering me a handkerchief once I had calmed down.

"It'll be alright, Ms. Peterson." He pressed my hand once I'd honked in a most unladylike manner into the cloth. "I look this awful every winter. You and I, we weren't built for this country!" I gave him a wobbling smile, but one more look at his haggard appearance and I was crying again. What a mess! How glad was I, that he had pledged himself to Evie's cause - who should like to defend a weak and wilty little creature like myself for the mere sake of it?

I was no heroine, it was plain to see.

22 January

Terrible time of it. Just the most rotten luck one could ask for. Hardly the strength to hold my head up, much less a pen. Will update once my head stops pounding so viciously!

Later

Not sure if still the same day, but a quick update: Mr. Bakersfield has diagnosed me with a fevre and told me not to move. How very pitiful indeed! Claims he's seen enough of my kind come through that he needs no doctor. A shame. To think, I live with one!

Lord help me, I hope this doesn't last long. Can't leave Evie alone with the doctor. Asking Lord DeCourt to send a letter. Perhaps Atticus will catch it before the doctor does. I've already sent a coded message telling him what's been stolen from him. Does he know he's the heir of the Radcliffe house yet?

Sleeping now. Head feels horrible. No promises of an update anytime soon.

Later

I've no idea what day it is, or what month. I have been moved to a different room, but I know not what house it is in. It does not appear to be home, nor the white walls of the DeCourt abode. Has Dr. Radcliffe kidnapped me and made away with my fevered body? I'm praying not. Living with the rats would be a better fate.

The Lord came in a few moments ago, and he sits now on the foot of my bed, wrapped in a thick fur coat and a pile of blankets. I think he's fallen asleep; I can hear a soft whistling from within the pile. If he's come to check on me, he might as well lay back down in his own bed. He sounds worse off than I do. One can only image how his joints must be under these circumstances. Somewhere, I can hear the sound of rain. Perhaps the snow has grown heavier? It's a strangely peaceful sound. Is this what heaven is like? I shouldn't mind if heaven were warm like the bed, soft like the pillows, and quiet like this rain.

A pot of tea sits on the desk beside me, and I cannot help but wonder how long it's been there. More importantly, how long have I been here? There is no way to know, and I doubt the Lord has any idea. From my position on the pillows, he appears to have deepened the dark circles under his eyes. Indeed, if I did not recognise the mop of whitish hair on his head, I should suspect a skeleton to have infiltrated my room. Even his bones stuck out, his cheeks protruding like the angles of a book, not a person.

"Sir? I believe you're on my foot." I coughed and wheezed as he opened his eyes in a panicked sort of way.

"Ms. Peterson!" he exclaimed, gasping and sitting upright. "My apologies! I hadn't expected to doze..." He yawned, rubbing at the hollows of his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"No better, I'm afraid." Rolling the pins out of my ankle, I gave him my most pitiful look. "We really ought not to have wandered around in the dead of winter, don't you think?"

"No, it was a most foolish decision." He smiled, patted my foot, and stood to pour himself a cup of tea, shedding one of the furs that had wrapped itself around his thin frame. Now that we are both awake, I aim to discover just how long my illness kept me unresponsive!

Unfortunately for me, the time the passed since the tenth of January has been catastrophic. How horrible a friend must I seem to Evelyn and Atticus in their hour of need! The last thing I told either of them was of Atticus' inheritance and the dire need that Evelyn extract herself from the house. I have had no time to impress anything more concrete, nothing clear enough to explain the very danger my friend is in the longer she stays at the house where that horrible doctor resides! When the Lord told me the date upon my pressing him, I very nearly fainted dead away.

My journal (and future reader, be it me or some other unfortunate soul), the date is the 15th of August. Over a year since the passing of my first journal entry, my initial journey into the rainy shores of Dorset. Over a year since I first stained these pages with my untested fingers. Has it been so long as eight months since I last saw my dear friends?

The realisation that I slept my way through most of the year was enough to make me cackle into a breathless frenzy. Surely, the Lord was a man of hidden comedic talent! My laughter soon became panicked when his mouth did not turn up in a smile, when his shoulders drooped and trembled, when his eyes gave me the sad, dark look of a man who has bad news to bear and hardly the disposition to deliver it.

It is the 15th of August.

I cannot understand it, cannot believe it.

What manner of illness has overtaken me that I am made a lame little lamb? Should I not be slaughtered, left for dead under such circumstances? Undoubtedly, Evelyn is long-dead. Atticus must know of his birthright now, and been killed off by the cruel doctor. Oh, the trouble I have brought upon these people!

Lord DeCourt has taken some time to soothe me and calm my woes. All hope is not as lost as my panic would have me believe. During my fevered haze, he has maintained contact with our friends in Cambridge. Writing more soon - we make our way back to the Lord's home tonight in preparation for a daring rescue. Knowing I have not failed my friends has brought a great conviction down on me, and I will not fail this time. I cannot. Health be damned, I will lay my life down for Evelyn and Atticus!

Soon,

Winn