1 January 1636

I can hardly believe how much time has passed since I was traveling the country with an idealistic heart and a functioning pair of lungs. I have very little left of my healthy lungs, it seems, as I have contracting another minor illness. I've been coughing and sniffling all day. I don't think I used to get sick as often, but then, I am getting older. These things happen as one ages.

There is a nagging little doubt in the back of my head that something deeper is wrong with me. But then, I'm always worried that something terrible will happen and I won't be able to take care of my daughters anymore. Perhaps it's just that fear that haunts me day and night, that something terrible will happen to me and I won't be able to care for my daughters.

I have to go now to do my rounds. I hope everyone's alright.

4 January 1636

Poor Miranda has the most awful cough in her chest, and so I set my pot on the stove with water and herbs to get that healthy steam into her lungs. Her mother is worried, but I think she'll be okay. I listened to her lungs and I know how it sounds when there's fluid in the lungs, and she didn't sound like that.

It's such a relief when someone gets better. It makes me feel like I'm actually doing some good in the world.

8 January 1636

My Meulin is coming with me more and more on my rounds, even though she spends a good deal of her time with her friends. She helps me treat the less serious illnesses and with the pregnant women before the birth. I should bring her to a birth soon. She has to learn sometime if she's to be the midwife when I pass on.

I'm praying there won't be too much winter fever this year. It's hard on the soul watching little ones pass away, even more so when it's so close to what my own little one went through. I feel the same way about the pox, now, and every little child suffering from it reminds me of my little Nepeta crying on the couch as she tried so hard not to scratch.

I hate watching children hurt. Nothing is so painful as children in pain.

13 January 1636

I've been writing Etta quite often, and she had her little one not so long ago! A little boy named Mark. She told me he's the most wonderful little boy she's ever seen in her life, and I couldn't help but smile. She's as old as I am-forty-one-so this will probably be her last. The only reason she's made it this far is because she uses the trick like Mariek taught me, so she hasn't had that many children. We're lucky, us women who can choose how many children we have. All women should be so lucky.

I do tell the women I treat about the trick, but it's hard because their husbands need to agree, and that's always harder. I think sometimes their husbands just don't understand how painful and terrifying it is to give birth. I wish they could, but that's just not how things work.

19 January 1636

I don't know how it is that despite how much I love my work, how much I love my daughters, how much I love whatever it is I'm doing, I get so very tired. I love my daughters, and spending time with them makes me so, so happy, but sometimes I'm so tired after that I can hardly think.

What's wrong with me? Why don't these things I love make me feel so awake and energetic, like they used to? I used to feel so alive when I was with my love and my friends and so real when I was traveling, but now everything is so hard.

What on Earth is wrong with me?

24 January 1636

It occurs to me that perhaps my mother was wrong in more ways that I realize. Etta wrote me back today telling me how she's so tired and she's glad her husband can take care of the children when it's too much for her, when she's so tired. And I suppose I realized that I have always treated myself as a bottomless well that always had just a little more to give. I have always reached inside and taken out just a little more. The problem is that there is no more. I'm giving of myself but there's no more to give and so I have nothing left for myself.

I'm tired because the well has run dry. If I want to not be tired, I have to wait for it to rain.

30 January 1636

My mother was wrong. Part of what she wanted of me was for me to give. She wanted me to be the bottomless well because that is what us women are supposed to be and she wanted me to be a proper woman. Perhaps she was so unhappy because she had realized that she did not have anything else to give and yet she kept trying to give.

I suppose once the well's run dry you end up scooping up sludge and dirt and trying to pass it off as water.

3 February 1636

I have realized why I am so tired but it has yet to rain and I have so many responsibilities. I still have to do my rounds and treat the women who come to me and Elizabeth is giving birth in just few weeks and Meulin wants to learn to hunt and Nepeta wants my help with the gardens and there's just so, so much.

Patrik will be over in a few days. I hope he's doing better than I am.

7 February 1636

When Patrik came for tea today he seemed worried.

"Is everything alright?" he asked me.

I sighed. "No, not really."

"What is wrong?"

"I'm empty, Patrik. There's nothing left."

He looked at me, confused.

"I have been giving of myself my entire life and now…there's nothing left. No water in this well. I'm completely empty but it won't just start raining."

"It never rains when it must," he said.

"I'm so tired, and I don't know what to do anymore. I just can't wait for the rain anymore."

He sat in silence for a while like he does, and then he said, "You said you are waiting for the rain. But it will never rain when it is needed. Perhaps, if you are tired, you should find time to rest."

I thought that over for a while, and I said, "Yes, I think that's true. If I can't draw up any more water, perhaps I need to start digging."

He nodded his agreement and sipped his tea.

"Is everything alright with you, Patrik?" I asked.

"As alright as it can be," he said. "I find it somewhat tiring having two young sons."

I smiled. "Yeah. Having children can take a lot out of you."

He smiled back and we talked about our children for the rest of the evening.

10 February 1636

Today I began digging. After dinner, when my girls went to read, I sat with them with my cup of tea and just listened for a while, not saying anything, just listening to them read aloud. I didn't try to teach them something and I did my best not to worry; I just let the words wash over me.

When I went to sleep I didn't feel so exhausted, I don't think, not as much as I am normally. I hope this is the right way to begin digging.

15 February 1636

Nepeta was home today while I was boiling bandages and she stood next to me, looking down.

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Of course you can, Nepeta."

"I don't want to grow up," she said. "I don't like my breasts, and they're only going to get bigger. I-um. I'm starting to like a boy in the village and I don't know if he likes me back and I don't know what to do. And I really don't want to get my monthly bleeding."

I nodded. I could tell she wanted to talk about it, but was nervous.

"Do you want to tell me about this boy?"

She nodded and blushed. "Um, well, his name is Karkat. Karkat Vantas. He's kind of short for a boy but he has really nice brown hair and brown eyes like coffee and he doesn't smile a lot but when he does, it's…beautiful." She smiled herself, and it was so sweet. "He's so wonderful and I just want to make him smile. I…when I see him, I can't help but smile. He makes me feel all light inside, like I'm full of soap bubbles." She was very red and smiling, looking down at the countertop.

"He sounds wonderful, Nepeta," I said. Vantas. He must be related to my love. She said he has brown hair and eyes, like my love did, and he sounds like a serious fellow. My love was like that when he was thirteen.

"He is," she said. "I just don't know what to do. How do I know if he likes me? And what do I do if he does?"

"Well, boys your age don't tend to know how to tell someone they like them. He might not do much of anything, really. And if you do like each other, you can start seeing each other."

"And what does that mean?" she asked. "I just…I don't know."

"When you're seeing someone…you can go see plays with them, have dinner together, and sometimes just…sit together and talk."

"That's just what I do with my friends. How is it different when you're seeing someone?"

"I…hm," I said, unsure. "I don't know. I suppose it's how you both feel about each other."

She thought that over and then said, "Well, I feel like I like him."

"So if you were seeing him, you'd feel that. And you could kiss him."

She went extremely red at that and said, "I suppose I could."

I couldn't help but smile. "Nepeta, whatever you chose to do with the people you love, just know that I will never be upset with you for it."

She looked at me oddly. "Are you talking about having children?"

"Yes," I said, trying to sound put together, even though I was surprised. But then, why should I be? My children have friends, and they hear about these things from each other.

"I'm not going to have children!" she said indignantly. "Not for a long time."

I nodded. "Sounds like a good plan, Nepeta."

"I still don't want to grow up."

"No one does. But we manage. You'll be alright."

"I suppose."

"You will be. I know it."

"How can you know that?"

"I'm a mother. We know everything," I teased. I reached out to touch her hand gently. "It's frightening to grow up, but you're going to be okay."

"What if I mess everything up?"

"There is no mistake so big you can't fix it," I said. "I promise."

She nodded solemnly and said, "Mama, were you afraid?"

"Yes," I said. "I was afraid to grow up. But I made it. And you will too."

She nodded again and squeezed my hand. "I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, Nepeta."

She'll be okay. I know it.

19 February 1636

I am trying very hard to rest when I need it, but one of the hard parts is recognizing when I need to rest. When I was tired before, my love would hold me close and I'd sleep in his arms, feeling warm and safe. My family made time for me to rest. Now I have to make my own time, and I suppose I'm just not sure how.

I've been trying to take a few minutes every night when I drink my tea when I just breathe and try not to think of anything. I try not to worry about my daughters, or about the people I treat, or my own broken head. Sometimes I take the time to let myself feel the ache of loss, but I can't help but feel guilty for indulging in this lasting grief. I have too many responsibilities to grieve anymore.

24 February 1636

My Meulin told me that, like when I was young, some of the young people from the palace are coming to the village now and then to walk around the countryside. She said they're Meenah Peixes, Cronus Ampora, and Kurloz Makara, and they're all her age. The children of my old enemies, the people who tore my family apart, are coming again to this town.

I'm not going to tell my daughters about what they did. Perhaps their children are good people, people who can be better than their parents. Meulin said that Kurloz seems a kind fellow, if quiet, and she hopes she can be friends with these new people. I hope she can too! I can't imagine they've had many friends their own age.

But if they do try to hurt my daughters, I'd fight every noble in the country to keep them safe.

29 February 1636

It's a year with an extra day this year, and I do so like the idea of that. Today is a day that I did not live through that first awful year after I lost my family. It's nice to know that there is a day on which I have suffered a little bit less, silly as that sounds.

Elizabeth gave birth today. I managed to get her through it safely, but it was a close thing. Her little one was born crying, thank goodness, and I think she'll be okay. I hope they'll both be. Meulin was with me, since this was Elizabeth's second birth, so I thought she'd be alright. And she was! Meulin watched, sometimes helping me a little bit by handing me things. I'm just relieved that Meulin's first birth wasn't also her first death.

It will happen someday. I just hope it isn't soon.

2 March 1636

I was talking with Patrik today and I mentioned how much I miss Dolora.

"It was…it was nice knowing that even though I'm an adult I was entirely capable in my own right, if something happened, I could ask her for help. It's silly."

"It is not silly if it is real to you."

"I don't have time to wallow in my grief. It's almost a decade old, and I have a job to do."

"I do not see why there should be any expiration on grief. I do not expect to finish grieving Phillip. I do not expect ever to be able to stop."

"I suppose you could be right." I thought it over, and then said, "Still, I have work to do."

He nodded. "Would it make you feel better to talk about it?"

"I don't think so," I said. "I think perhaps I just need to feel the grief. It might help."

"I suspect that would be healthy," he agreed, and we sat in quiet for a while.

I'll try to feel the grief fully, and perhaps after I feel, I can start to feel better.

8 March 1636

I had some time today after I finished my rounds because Meulin and Nepeta wanted to stay in the village, and so I brewed a cup of my tea with the St. John's wort and I thought of everything I miss about my family, everything I lost when I lost them. When the sorrow washed over me I let it pour over me, and I let myself feel it and cry. I felt the grief and the pain and the loss, and when it finished washing over me I felt…a little better, I suppose.

I am digging, now. I am resting and caring for myself, letting myself relax a little when I spent time with my daughters. I just hope that below the well, deeper underground, there is more water.

I don't know what I'll do if there's not.

12 March 1636

I made some progress today. It helps when I remember to drink my tea. I rested, and I felt the grief and let it pass on, and then I ate dinner with my daughters and read with them later.

I worry about them. I can't help it. I love them and I pray every day that they'll be happy. I know I can't control them or make their lives perfect, but I want them to be alright. I want them to have happier lives than I've had.

They'll be okay.

16 March 1636

My Meulin started her monthly bleeding today. She came to me from the village, almost crying, with blood on her dress. "Mama, I don't know what to do…"

"We have cloth to soak up the blood. It's going to be okay, little love. Anyone who can give birth and many of us who can't get their bleeding at some point. It's perfectly normal and anyone who makes fun of you for it doesn't know what they're talking about."

"My stomach hurts, too."

"I know, little love. Hold on, I make a medicine for exactly this purpose."

"Thank goodness."

I cracked a smile at that.

"I'll teach you to make it. I keep the mix in the blue jar. Dolora taught me to make it when I was first learning from her."

"Maybe I can teach my daughter someday."

"Of course," I said. "Maybe you can pass all of this on if you have a daughter. It's important work we do as the midwife."

"I hope I have a daughter," she said.

"Even if you don't, you can train up the next midwife," I said.

She nodded, thinking. "I think I'd like that."

"Good," I said. "I'm glad."

And I am.

20 March 1636

I dreamed about my first family last night. In the dream, I went downstairs to breakfast and my family was there, waiting, breakfast ready. They all watched me come down the stairs and sit down, not saying anything.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

Dolora nodded.

"Why aren't you talking?"

Simonn looked at me, sad, and opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"I see," I said. "Are you alright? Are you happy?"

Sigmun nodded and took my hand. He squeezed tight, as if it was all he could do.

"I'm going to be with you soon. I just have a few things to finish up upstairs."

Dolora offered me a kind smile and a slow nod. I understood she meant that I should take all the time I needed. So I squeezed my love's hand back, then took Dolora's and Simonn's in turn to squeeze them, to let them know I was there.

"I love you," I said. "I love you all so much."

They looked at me, their faces incomprehensible, and watched as I climbed up the stairs. When I reached the top I woke up, and my eyes were wet with tears.

I will be with them soon. I hope not to soon, but I'm forty. My life is more than half over, most probably. Soon enough, I will be with my family again.

26 March 1636

My daughters wanted to go swimming today, but the river was flooded and fast from the snowmelt. I told them never to swim if they weren't sure they could stay in the eddy, so instead they read by the creek. I'm glad they listen to some of the things I say, even if they both consider me rather old (I am rather old).

I want to follow that creek again. I remember the water bubbling up from the ground, and I think to see that again would make me happy. I can't say why I think that, except that it is springtime and springtime is when things are born. The forget-me-nots will grow back and the little children born in winter will see green for the first time and Jesus rose up from his grave, and I think the water bubbling up is its own kind of birth.

Water gives us life. I need to see that there is more life coming to this world.

30 March 1636

I made sure no one needed me today, including my daughters, and then I went to the creek, took off my boots, tied up my skirt, and walked against the current as far as I could go. I wasn't resting, really, but it still felt like digging deeper.

It took an hour or two until I reached the place where the creek begins. It was like I remembered, except the trees had grown taller and older. The spring was still bubbling steadily away, providing life to a little creek I loved to play in as a child. I could feel the cool water flowing, and it seemed that just standing there I was digging deeper to find the water.

I don't know if I found the water, but I think a trickle has started to flow.