All else was silent, not a stirring of a breeze through the trees, not a crackling from the hearth, the bedchamber was as always, opulent, warm and a haven for the weary, yet a fitful sleep gave her little comfort, her dreams marred by recent experiences. She clenched the wool blanket in her hands as she muttered in her dream state, tossing and turning, arguing with those who dwelt in her mind. The dog snored at the foot of the bed, blissfully ignorant to its mistresses' discomfort. Her workroom was unusually messy. Several knives lay upon her work surface, each sharpened to perfection, some simple, some elegant. Vials, dishes, shallow bowls, herbs, tinctures, pastes, all manner of items filled the remaining space, as did her diary. The quill lay over the open pages leaving a messy splot of ink.
It never lasts, the relative peace and tranquillity, a fools thinking that it would, but then I have never claimed myself to have a brilliant mind, a hopeful one I suppose. Day one passed without incident, no sight of the crone, nor of the madman. Day two has been just as uneventful, though I prepare.
Miss Ashbark, you must be bewildered by recent happenings, how could you not be? Yet you rarely show anything resembling deep interest in the affairs of others. It concerns me, for perhaps I presume too much but I see you as being more vulnerable than our bird like friend, for you seem to look at the world as if through a pane of glass instead of actually living within it. Do you really believe yourself immune to what is to come? Your association with me is enough. This being said, I was thankful for your request, work busies the mind.
The third eve quickly approaches. The trickling of sand passes through the glass and there is no stopping its progress. What shall be, will be, regardless anything I do. I know this, too well. Yet I perform a likely fruitless task, blades are sharpened, darts carried, the home is refortified. I will not sleep on the third eve, I will not give into the predetermined fate bestowed upon me. I will remain alert.
The madman claims to bring peace to the town and that this displeases me. No, his methods displease me. Violence and a sickening pleasure in it are his way, yet his message unnerves me more than any act I have witnessed by his hand. He shared a moment with me, a strange, chilling moment which I willed to be the effects of drink, yet it was not so. He heard the crone too even though we might have been leagues apart at the time, and the message delivered by his mouth twisted the pit of my stomach. I wish I could disregard this mutual experience and his words, yet now they haunt me. My mind is my own, she cannot own it. The barrow downs, the wheel of the dead? I will not become this crones puppet.
