1 November 1631
Everything's dying, as it does in the winter, but it was All Saints' day today and so the village was bright and beautiful. I haven't been in years, but I took my daughters this year and my goodness, it was beautiful. It was snowing lightly, and the snow reflected back the hundreds of lit candles to us, and there was dancing and fiddle music and food and drink everywhere. My girls had terrific fun and although I didn't dance or really talk to anyone, it was nice to be around people who were so happy. No one really looked at me twice, luckily. I'm wondering if I need to hide myself so much. I'm not sure anyone would recognize me. As far as anyone official is concerned, I'm dead.
I could sell medicines again. I could be the midwife. I could save women and children who are in pain. I'm not sure I could do much, but I could try.
3 November 1631
I should teach them to make medicines. My two little girls are going to live long after I'm gone, and they'll need to support themselves, and they'll need to make their own medicines. Dolora taught me everything she knew; I'll teach them everything I know.
I'm too scared of the village to go be the midwife right now. I know that's pathetic and selfish and I could be saving lives but I can't, not now. I can't be a good doctor if I can hardly breathe whenever I'm in the village, and I can't risk any harm coming to me and keeping me away from my daughters.
And I'm petrified to see someone from my old life. I might as well admit it in my old journal. I've never kept any secrets from this little book, and I won't start now. I'm too scared to go into the village. I'm so afraid of what people will say about me, and to me, and I'm afraid because I spent my whole life being judged by that village and I can't stand it one more second.
I'm too afraid.
6 November 1631
Nepeta's writing is coming along very well. I'll probably start spending some of the time I've spent showing her to write teaching them something else. They both love to learn, and I hope it'll help Nepeta if instead of just stopping writing lessons, we move to learning something else. She doesn't like it when things are different day to day. Meulin's always looking for something new, but she does go into the village the same two days every week for Nepeta.
I'll move to teaching them things about medicine, how to mix them and how to recognize herbs and which ones do what. I think it's important to know, and it's…it's what my real mother taught me. I'll teach my real daughters what my real mother taught me.
8 November 1631
My girls are quite brilliant. I've been showing them how to mix things, and playing games to help memorize the purposes of various herbs and plants I use. They'll get it in time, and if not, I have Dolora's old books. She wrote down everything she knew.
Maybe I should go into the village. Dolora wrote it all down, but most people can't read. Do they even have a midwife these days? Or is it just the village doctor, bumbling around? He can't possibly know what he's doing-Dr. Trevor never did, and he almost killed a woman giving birth before Dolora got there and stopped the bleeding.
And I do need to make money. I need to buy milk and lard and fabric and thread and shoes, and it would be nice to once in a while buy a book. Dolora only made enough money off selling her medicine to get by, and I can do the same thing. I'll only charge what I have to, and give away medicine when people need it.
I think I need some time. I can't, not right now. I will, soon, but I can't yet.
Someday.
11 November 1631
I was reading over my old journals today, and I found some of my old poetry. It was so terrible! How did I ever think that was good?
But I felt that way again, the way I felt when I wrote the first poem, so I wrote another little snippet of some idea had back then. It's still terrible, certainly, but no one else reads this!
To A Little Girl, Continued
Dying little girl alone on the street
Sick little body almost empty of heat
Don't worry, little girl, I've been there, too
Mama's coming just to help you
15 November 1631
I've been busy. For the first time in years and years, I'm busy again. I spend time with my daughters and hunt and cook and make bread and when my girls are in the village, I pour over Dolora's books as if she is still there, teaching me.
Meulin is fascinated with medicines, and Nepeta's interested but she's most excited to learn to hunt. I told her I'd show her how to use my bow and arrow as soon as she's big enough. In the meantime, I let her hold my bow, and she could hardly lift it but it was so adorable.
Maybe I should check the village and see if they have a smaller bow. I used the small one my father gave me for a long time before I bought a proper bow.
Although…I may still have the toy bow. It might be small enough for her, and for Meulin. I should teach both of them, though Nepeta does seem more interested. I don't need to wait forever to teach them to shoot, although I don't want them hunting until they're older, maybe fourteen. I initially thought sixteen, but that might be too long.
19 November 1631
I do still have the toy bow and arrow from when I was learning how to hunt. I'll set up those targets on the trees and show my daughters to shoot with the old toy one, and when they're old enough and big enough they can use my proper bow.
When they're old enough and big enough, I'll teach them to hunt.
22 November 1631
Meulin met another girl today in the village today. A girl named Damara. Meulin tells me she's a shortish girl, but not too short, with straight dark hair and brown eyes and a kind smile. Apparently she wears a lot of dark red and has a little sister, and she's Jewish.
It can't be anyone else. Hannah's family was the only Jewish one I knew in this village, and Hannah wore dark red, and Hannah had straight dark hair and brown eyes and a kind smile, and Hannah was shortish but taller than me. Not to mention the name! There cannot be anyone else named Damara in this world.
Hannah said our daughters would be friends, but they'd never know we were friends.
What else did Hannah say?
24 November 1631
I was reading back, and Hannah was right down to the letter. I have a daughter and she is friends with Hannah's daughters. I've outlived my love. My daughters is going to be important, somehow.
I wonder what else my friends said that's real?
28 November 1631
A few of Meulin's friends came by today-Latula and Mituna and Damara. They're an energetic bunch, running around the woods and climbing trees and exploring all those old places my friends and I used to love.
She knows about the clearing where I buried you. I told her where it is, although she's never seen it herself. She knows not to play there.
30 November 1631
My mother was wrong. I have to keep writing it. If I don't write it, I'll forget it and go back to thinking she was right and I've done something wrong.
My mother was wrong, and my daughters are never going to believe they've done something wrong.
3 December 1631
Nepeta brought over some of her friends today, Equius of course and a young girl named Aradia (Hannah's niece, Eleanor's daughter, she must be) and a little boy Tavros. The four of them played in the front of the house, with daisies and horseshoes, and it was beyond adorable.
She's happy. When she's with her friends, she smiles big and wild and unrestrained, and she laughs aloud more than I've ever heard her. I'm her mother; I can love her, and be there for her when she has nightmares, and teach her everything I know, but I cannot be her friend.
Meulin went to the village. I'll meet more of her friends someday, I'm sure.
7 December 1631
It's Advent now, which I haven't done anything about in years. I dug out Dolora's old colorful candles and lit two today, for the second Sunday. Hope and joy. Hope is alive in my daughters, certainly, who may be allowed better futures than I will ever have. And so is joy, when they laugh with their friends and each other and me, too, sometimes. They're wonderful, my daughters, and I forget very easily that they love me.
They're very excited, counting down the days to Christmas. I have to find them presents, and find those old recipes for all the Christmas foods we used to cook together. I haven't done Christmas dinner in ages.
10 December 1631
My little girls want to help me cook dinner. I told them of course, and it almost hurts. I'll be cooking Christmas dinner with my family again, only this time it'll be my dinner instead of Dolora's.
I wish Dolora was here. I wish my whole family was here, including my little girls. Luke would be fourteen now, and I'm sure we'd all be helping with Dolora directing, or maybe just us adults would be cooking and the children would be playing, building snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other.
They'd be happy. We'd all be happy.
14 December 1631
Third Sunday of Advent today, peace. When the snow falls at sunset, quiet and serene, I feel peaceful. When my daughters fall asleep reading on the couch, leaning against each other, they are peaceful.
Button is never peaceful but she's a kitten. She pads around the house at all hours of the night, meowing loud enough to wake me up at some absurd hour of the night sometimes. When she curls up on my chest and purrs, that's peaceful.
It's alright.
17 December 1631
Meulin and Nepeta were playing with Button this morning while I was still asleep (how easily I fall into those old terrible sleeping habits from when I was young and the nightmares were not so worn out) when the kitten went up to my room to wake me up and my girls followed.
"Mama! Mama wake up! Button wants to play!" Nepeta said, shaking me.
"Hm? I'm awake, I'm awake. What's happening, Nepeta?"
"Button wants to play."
"Of course," I said. "Of course, give me a moment to get dressed."
They wake me up so I can play with the kitten. I'm part of a family with them. My two daughters and my kitten. We're a family.
21 December 1631
Christmas is very soon, and I still don't know what to get for my daughters. It's the fourth Sunday of Advent today, and there is no question that there is love in my life now. I just need them to know it.
It's their first Christmas with me. Maybe I could give Meulin that bracelet Dolora gave me, the one she gave me my first Christmas with them, except I've no idea where it is. And Nepeta…she likes soft clothes, so I was thinking of making her a skirt with this soft cotton I asked Meulin to pick up for me a while back. She rubs soft things between fingers when she's nervous or tired or there's just too much happening at once, and a soft skirt might help.
She also likes to chew on mint leaves when she's like that, so I try to keep them on hand. It's peculiar, to be sure, but heaven knows I'm half mad and I'm in no place to tell her how to handle her own mind. Whatever works for her, I'm ready to help her.
And Meulin…that bracelet would be good. I think it'd help her feel like my daughter, rather than like her sister's caretaker. I can tell she still does-she's always trying to take care of her sister first. I just want her to be allowed to be a child.
My goodness, this was much easier when I just looked for something by Galileo or whoever for Simonn, nice green fabric for Dolora, and a history book for Sigmun.
23 December 1631
They're all in a tizzy right now, excited for Christmas. I promised them a feast and presents, things they've never really had before. Meulin told me in no uncertain terms that she'd been starved as a child, and Nepeta hasn't said anything but she was as skinny as Meulin when I found her.
She has been putting on weight, thank heaven. Both of them have. Meulin has my body shape, I think, and though Nepeta's different, she should never have been that thin. Once they're really, properly healthy, they'll both be strong and I'm sure they'll be brilliant hunters.
I best start gathering ingredients for the supper. I'm going to need so many things.
25 December 1631
What a lovely Christmas.
The two of them and I cooked turkey and Yorkshire pudding and mincemeat pies and the green beans with the nuts and a Yule log, all those good foods you cook on Christmas. I haven't felt so light in a long time. It was a delicious meal (how odd that food no longer tastes like cotton) and the whole house felt warm and bright. I found that little bracelet Dolora gave me and I gave it to Meulin and told her it was from my first real Christmas, and I gave Nepeta that green skirt I sewed, a nice soft one with all my embroidery. I wasn't expecting anything from them, but my two girls gave me this wreath made of pine branches and winterberries and Meulin said, "I thought you'd like it because it's kind of pretty."
"It's beautiful, little love. Thank you very much. I'll hang it up on the door today."
"You're welcome. Thank you, Mama."
"You're very welcome."
Meulin hugged me and put on the bracelet, and then Nepeta squeezed my hand because she doesn't like hugs.
"Mama?" Meulin asked.
"Hm?"
"Why don't you ever go to the market?"
"Well, you're certainly capable of going on your own."
"But you could come with me."
"I can't, little love."
"Why not?"
"Today's not the day for sad stories, little love."
"Will you tell me someday?"
"Someday I will."
"Alright," she said reluctantly. I don't want to tell them what happened. I don't want to tell them what I've seen and what's happened to me. I don't want them to know. But I wonder if they ought to, only because it's become obvious that they notice all the scars I have.
I wish they had never noticed. I wish I still had that unscarred skin from when I was little. I wish the only scars I had were the ones on my knee from a cut I got when I was eight and the one on my elbow from falling out a tree when I was ten. I wish, I wish, I wish. I shouldn't have lived. I'm on borrowed time and I know it.
Why not make the best of my borrowed time?
28 December 1631
It's New Years' in a few days. I haven't resolved anything in a while, and I don't think I will now. But it's nice that a new year is coming. I'm turning over a new leaf, starting a new family. Maybe I'll go into town and be the midwife. Maybe I'll live to a ripe old age and have grandchildren.
Who knows? Life is full of possibilities, or so I'm told.
31 December 1631
Tomorrow is the new year. My daughters want to stay up until midnight, and I told them they could feel free to try. The old grandfather clock in the library isn't well-maintained, because I'm too afraid to bring even the young clockmaker to my home, but I set it roughly correct, I think.
It doesn't matter much. I measure time by the sun, really. They'll fall asleep before midnight, and I'll carry them up to bed, and when they wake up it'll be 1632 and it will be different.
It's very different.