(OOC: The following diary entry is poorly written in an unsteady hand, with multiple misspellings, corrections, and inconsistent grammar.)
I been trying to think of how to tell Mister Dimheim that I need more of the oil. Or how to ask him if he’ll let me have some and pay him for it later. I hate the thought of it! Pa always said that a person should never have something they didn’t work for or earn honest. Maybe I can offer to do a chore or two for him until my pockets are less empty. The thing is, I don’t think he’d be angry or harsh about it, or make me feel foolish. I do all that to myself on my own. What I dred (?) is the look that might be in his eyes when I tell him I lost the oil. Dissapointment (?) is what I’m afraid to see. I haven’t even sat outside last evening or this one. I’m afraid that I’ll run into him or he’ll see me and come over and say hello. And then I won’t be able to hide, because he has a strange, studying way about him. He’ll be looking off at the sky or at a tree and then suddenly ask something that you don’t expect (?). And I’ll say “I lost the oil” and he’ll say “how” and then I won’t want to tell him how. I won’t lie to him. I don’t lie. I’ll cut my tung (?) out before I lie to him or anyone.
I need to make up my mind. Either go over there and tell him I lost it and ask if I can work for more, or see if there’s some odd jobs around the village I might do for coin. I hope Emory’s enjoying my hard earned coin, that lout!
The new boarder is a young lady from just down the road. I didn’t understand till the next morning why Missus Holbrook had put out all the candles and were whispering for me to be quiet and all. I won’t put her name here just because it doesn’t seem curtious (?), as she be running away from a drunkard husband who turned her face black and blue. We asured (?) her again and again that we keep the front door locked now, and nobody gets in who doesn’t have a key. Poor lass. She asked about my limp and I wound up sitting and telling her all about how it happened, and then about Emory. Maybe I were just hoping to make her feel like she isn’t alone. She talked about how she planned and saved her coin for weeks till she could get away. I told her I didn’t plan anything, I just ran out one night cause I’d had enough (?). I said I didn’t care that night if I had nowhere to go and nothing to eat, I were happy to die alone in a ditch if it meant being away from Emory’s fists and she nodded and then she reached over and took my hand. It felt odd to have her trying to comfort me, when she were the one with the bruises. But I guess, even though our faces might heal, the bruises on the inside last a lot longer. So in that way, we were equils (?) that day.
I offered to take her over to Mister Dimheim at the Soothery, but she insisted she were all right and nothing was broken and she just wanted to rest. I made her some tea and she seemed happy enough with that. I want to ask her what she’ll do next. If she’ll go home to her husband or go somewhere else. But it doesn’t seem the right time to ask such things. She asked why I didn’t have a husband of my own, since I’m even older than she is (she be twenty two). I always get funny when folk ask me things like that. To me it’s all so obveous (?). I’m poor, I’m lame (even if I’m not as lame as I used to be), and I’m no great beuty (?). I’d like to think I’m smart in a way, even if I’m not learned like someone from one of those big cities that come through Bree so often. I pick up things quick and I notice things, and I like to work and do things what stretch my mind. I don’t know what kind of man would be happy with me, though. Hultroth were gentle and warm and protecting, but he were a wandering sort, and I can’t wander unless it be on the back of a horse or sitting in a wagon. Zeylheim were sweet and doting, but seemed to have his head in the clouds a lot, and then he just vanished one day. Maybe some farmer who just wants a wife to mend his socks and cook his supper would be happy with me. Clearly I need to stop taking a fancy to anyone from outside Bree, as they’re all too good for me and they never stay here anyway.
