10 October

Four days of moving and cleaning and biting my precious nails to useless lengths. I had hoped to continue my tale after arriving, but the doctor saw to it that we were well occupied, and even now, I am supposed to be organising the things in my room to make way for a desk. Appalled at my lack of a consistent workspace, Dr. Radcliffe has purchased a desk, of all things, for me to write at. I don't know how he discovered, or who told him, that I write more than childish journal entries, but now I am all the more suspicious of him for it. Of course, I am still required to bed down more often than not, and am incapable of seeing Evie nearly half as much as I want. What a silly point, to pull me away from my quaint house to live as a companion for the rest of my life, if not to allow me in the presence of the one who I was brought to give said company to!

It's all ridiculous. I haven't bitten my nails in years, mind you. My mother put quite an emphatic stop to it when she dipped my fingers in oil for a week, but even that very vivid memory was washed away by my nerves. I wanted to cuss. I am not a rowdy woman, but I wish I could fling out at the walls the dirty words the sailors shouted when there were no women to woo.

Fuck.

There. I think I'm better. At least having written it down means no one will have heard it. Fuck. Oh, if my mother could hear me now! How easily am I reduced to vile and rude behaviour, but I feel there's a definite excuse for it. It's so obnoxious, so utterly repulsive, to be locked away in this house! I haven't seen much of it, but I've heard quite a raucous clatter that I've been reduced to jumps and flinches for nearly every hour of the day. I thought I heard crying earlier, but it could have been the window, which is opened only to a degree or so to let in the smallest amount of air possible, but which also possesses the horrid side effect of screeching relentlessly. Sometimes, if the wind outdoors is kind, the shrill noise quiets to a dull hum, but from where I suppose my new room is located, the wind has all the opportunity to rip so callously into my room, and thus produce that vile sound all the more. I'm not entirely certain where Evie's room is, as this house is far larger on the inside than it would appear from the street. I shudder to think that it isn't just her room, but I've seen so little of her since we arrived that I can neither confirm nor deny any of my suspicions.

After we were told to eat, Evie and I, fearing for our compromised states should we eat, were very hesitant to consume anything, until the cook and his son sat down at the table and served us all food. I hadn't heard of any modern houses having cooks, so this bade me wonder all the more about what this doctor actually did to be able to afford such an expense. Oddly enough, the cook and the son only gave us strange looks when we didn't immediately start eating. Were they not scared of poisoning?

Supposing if they had poisoned the food, they wouldn't consume what was set out on the table, we tentatively began to pick at our food. Evie was very pale about the face and did not more than nibble at what she had, much to the displeasure of the cook, who glared at her occasionally from his bowl. I made a note to beware this character.

Once I had looked up from my food long enough to gaze curiously at the dining room, I found the son of our baker of bread staring intently at me. I jolted in my seat, hoping nobody had noticed the rattle of spoons, and blushed. It was the sort of stare that attempts to digest one's entire personality in a look.

What right did he have to my personality, to unapologetic viewing of my face! Evie may have laughed, should she be in my shoes, but young men and I had never been on the sorts of terms that would allow them to gaze like so upon me.

Now annoyed and suspicious of both father and son, I ate my soup as quickly as I could, turning redder still with the knowledge that I was the object of someone's unabashed staring. What deplorable conditions to eat in! Once our food was cleared away, more so in the case of Evie, who had hardly consumed any of her food and left her glass of wine untouched, the cook's rude son stood, wiped his face with a cloth dirtier than his unkempt nails, and belcher in such a manner that the handkerchief around his neck fluttered from the gale. "Alright, off we go, m'ladies," he said, and, expecting us to follow at once, only raised an irked eyebrow when we did not immediately arise. "Life'll be far less pleasant down here, trust me. Off we go." Sharing glum looks, Evie and I picked ourselves up and followed the surly young man up the stairs, wincing every time he scraped at his teeth with a pick.

Show to our rooms in the most unlit part of the house, it was impossible to glean any details about our surroundings outside of the dramatic furniture downstairs. Peering from hall to hall, trying to memorize the path back to the front door, where I might one day make my escape, I soon realised that escape was a thoroughly silly notion. Just groping my way from a door to the next would have been impressive. After hearing my smash my feet into yet another dresser, stupidly placed in the middle of the hall in the dark, the grimy youth had the sense to strike a match (which was what he was actually using to 'clean' his teeth) and fill a lamp in the hall with a dull sort of light.

What a delightfully unsettling hall! Though I knew the dangers of this place from the decorations, the inspired writer in my heart trembled and shivered with delight to see the story-like paintings, the wallpaper, the very doors! Cracked across the walls on thin, whispering sheets of paper were webs, it appeared, pattered across everything. Very subtle, very dark webs, almost as though you could miss it if you're eye wasn't focused. The paintings were all bordered in the same thick, golden frames, blackened in places from age, smoke, or dust. Faces gloomed down at me from all angles, dogs at their mournful masters' sides, children sullenly perched in their mothers' arms, Lords and Ladies sighing out of the oil they were entrenched in. The doors, not to be outdone, were all made of the same dark, black wood, and handled with knobs of gold nearly the same faded colour as the painting frames. What a magnificent hall! Coupled with the funeral-esque style of the main room downstairs, I could almost sense the insanity of some poor inhabitant, some miserable lady, trapped in her rooms to perish.

It was then that I remembered the doctor and the letters discovered in my attic. This was Igor Radcliffe's house. Whoever he really was (and trust me in this, I will discover!), he was no stranger to keeping woken isolated and in need of aid, if the author of those mysterious letters could be trusted.

I resolved to ask Evie for the letters when the cook's son (who I have now heard named Atticus, if the shouting of his father could be trusted), threw open a door seemingly at random and nodded at me. "In you go!" he said with a dismissive nod, turning at once to beckon Evie along. "The doctor will want you to wait down here before he comes back, then." First, the undivided attention of this scoundrel, and now, hardly a glance in my direction before I was thrust off to collect cobwebs!

"Why can't we stay together," I demanded, "at least, until the... the doctor returns?" Whether desperate to be seen as a person and not a passing thing to look at, or solely focused on keeping my friend close, I know not my true motives for speaking up, but it very well could have been both, so strong we're my emotions.

I was regarded with a very empty look.

"Can't have that, miss. Nobody disobeys orders." Without so much as one explanation of what this meant, he grasped Evie by the back of the elbow and pulled her so forcibly along that she yelped and swung a fist at his head, which was unfortunately, narrowly avoided. Feeling as though I'd put her in more danger than I assumed we were already in, I quickly ran forward and pulled Evie back, hugging her close.

"Touch me again," she snarled, hair loose and floating over her eyes with every heavy breath she took. "Touch me again." She needn't finish the threat. Eyeing her with a new understanding, Atticus rubbed his chin and shrugged, as though he could feel where the blow would have landed.

"Suit yourself," he grumbled, and he slouched onward. "I can see why he likes you." Mumbling to himself, he spared one last command for me to stay in my room until called, and then I didn't hear from him for the rest of the night. In our moment of freedom before my banishment, I turned Evie around and embraced her so fiercely that I could have cracked my own arms. Not one prone to physical touch, she stiffened at first, then squeezed me back just as hard.

"Don't leave your room," she whispered into my hair. "We don't know what else is living here, and I'll be damned if I let anything happen to you."

"I'll stay inside," I promised, taking one last breath in of her hair, still smelling of the earth, before letting her go, not without the sting of tears in my eye.

"Goodnight, Winnifred." Giving me a look that said both Listen to me and I'll miss you terribly, Evelyn turned and ran after that stupid boy, becoming no more than a memory for the evening. Late as it already was, I doubted I would see her until midday, if I was lucky. There was no doubt in my mind that the doctor would keep her as much to himself as he could. Left to my own devices, I entered my new room and bolted the door behind me, sagging against the wood when the lock clicked.

"God in Heaven, spare me a slow death!"

The dramatic displays were necessary in times like these. Without embodying the spirit of a character entrenched in a miserable world, like the dear Antonia in the depths of the crypts, awaiting death and further humiliation at the hands of the Monk, I would go mad. Who, but one in my situation, would know how to respond? Who else would understand the flailings of the human spirit when trapped in bondage?

I was reminded of my father's past, of his grandparents, caught in the filth of human trade and labour. How many of them suffered at the hands of those who would control them? Would this pattern ever stop? I considered if I had inherited the resolution of spirit of those helpless souls who'd found ways to escape the shackles and find freedom.

Sadly, I could not measure up to my proud and resolute ancestors. I, burdened with a penchant for colds and pneumonia and every other sort of breathing inhibition, could no more than run for my freedom than I could fly. Even the brief sprint down the hall had put a pressure in my chest I felt embarrassed to have. How easily would I have been murdered, had I been born a hundred years prior!

Feeling somewhat grateful that I was not born then, but in an age where I could freely roam and wheeze my way about without restitution, I nevertheless felt burdened by my situation. I could not fight or swim away, but I needed to find some method of preserving my sanity. Thus, I decided to write, both in this journal on the scattered pieces of my story, and this was how Dr. Radcliffe found me when he returned. No doubt investigating whether or not I had remained where he'd left instructions for me to, he rapped on the door and peered in once I'd unlocked it. It could have been then, I now realize that he saw I needed a more suitable place to write, but for the moment, all he did was look around the room and then at me.

"Remember to rest often," he said with a peculiar look in his eye. "Dinner will be served at nine, as we arrived rather late, but expect to be in bed at this hour after today." Peering down at my trembling self, he smiled suddenly and said "I do hope you'll feel yourself improve here," before withdrawing and stepping off to where Evie lay in wait.

Oh, the bastard!

I shall quit where I am here and rest, at any rate. There was quite a lot to catch up on, and I am feeling exhausted simply thinking about that horrid first day. Perhaps tomorrow will be better than the last few pitiful mornings.

Miserably, Winn

Winn

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