18 July
So. Attela has ordered me to continue this—in her words—"diary." Hoorah. Why on Earth did I even start writing it? Oh, right. Howard.
I brought that first paper, the one with my last two "entries," to Attela to keep them out of Howard's reach. And, of course, she read it. I shall be honest: sometimes my frail old teacher irritates me just as much as my brother does. However, here at least my thoughts are safe from anyone who might disapprove of them. Attela, in fact, thinks it wonderful that I chose to write and, as I have already said, has instructed me to continue.
She thinks it is good for me to "express myself" like this. And I must agree, it can be rather soothing. Still, it is a bother. But I must heed Attela, for if I don't, my lessons with her will be canceled.
Attela teaches me magic, among other things. In truth, the actual magic lessons are rare and come about so silently that I don't even realize what they are until they've happened. Reading over that, I know it makes little sense. I shall elaborate later. Most of my lessons are in what she calls "the values of respect, effort, and love."
Respect? Yes. I do respect her. She's old, frail, and quite demanding; yet she is powerful, clever, and kind. She certainly makes my life more interesting than those of the village girls, and for that I am extremely grateful.
Effort? Hah! What a wonderful understatement! Backbreaking, spine-crushing work would be a far more adequate term to use! She is old; she can do next to nothing. I do the household chores for her. Firewood I carry, dishes I wash, rows upon rows of shelves I dust. It's the reason we don't pay in money for my lessons. The cooking and washing I do is her reward.
And as for love, I haven't the faintest idea where she pulled that word from. Attela is so old and wrinkled, it is difficult to imagine her loving anybody, and yet, she tells me she once did. As for myself, I am only twelve. I consider myself far too young to be paying attention to boys, though I know for a fact the village girls my age flirt like mad. Especially May—oh, she's the worst! Besides, I have yet to meet a boy worth loving. Of course, almost my entire experience with the male gender has been limited to my daily arguments with Howard.
I must write for half an hour straight, and there is still quite some time left. Attela bustles about, stooped over, rearranging all the vials and jars that she does not yet trust me with. This cottage is but a small, one-room shack with a counter going all the way around three walls. A bed, piled high with raggedy blankets, is pushed up against the forth. It stands under a small window, next to the door. The table at which I write occupies most of the center of the room. It has only one chair. There is also a short stool, usually my resting spot, which is pushed around the room as needed. Right now it is in front of the washbasin, on the other side of the table. Directly behind me is "my side" of the cottage, the area that holds the books, scrolls, and vials I am charged with.
Ah, finally the time is up! Goodbye, O So Very Dear Diary, goodbye!
