12th, Month of High Cold, 1810
My physician says I should keep a journal. Says it will do me good to reflect on my ways and deeds. Says that the mark on my hand is just a tattoo or blemish from birth, and that the black-eyed boy is only in my head. Pshah! Bunch of fools. I found where the administrator keeps the whiskey. Snuck a bottle to my room, easy as that. I think I could stuff a whale under my jacket and dance the gavotte and they'd never notice. What would my sweet physician say about that? Or my dreary old husband? "Oh my, Vera, what have you done now?! Mumble, mumble. Appearances and what not!"
16th, Month of Hearths, 1810
I must get home to my collection of carved bones. Such pretty things, brought all the way from Pandyssia. How warm they feel in my hands - there's power there. Something I could learn to harness. That's why I've been trying to be a proper "lady" again, with clean nails and a perfumed handkerchief. My physician says if I'm still behaved by the ends of Hearths, that they might send me home! So I smile and curtsey. And I ask for tea in the afternoon. Comb my hair. Drink my medicines. And I stopped trying to bite the attendants.