Taragen

Dec. 14

I’ve been neglecting my journal in favor of being holed up at home! Something about the cold weather makes me wish to do nothing by stay by the fire and tinker or read. O, my poor eyes, I strain them so. Working on the hand, working on the  thing, working on other writings, working on painting. Yes, I impulsively bought much paint and canvas and have been making a horrible mess — but I’ve been having fun.

[The script is the same as before. Again, each log is a new page, and again there is another torn introductory note that reads:]
 

We have been speaking plenty in person, now that you have recovered from your fever, so much of the stuff I would otherwise write in a report to you feels redundant at best. Still, I have found that there is much to say.

[The script is, overall, ostentatious. Overtly curly and perhaps hard to read, and it’s almost as if the author was already wishing to write his next sentence before the first had finished. With each log, a fresh page begins, but lying on top of them all is a torn slip of parchment that reads:]

Entry the ninth.

Since last I wrote, I was called upon to assist in the treatment of lingering lung-fever, age-related cognitive decline, commotion caused by shaking of the brain, and a minor leg break. All of these cases have had in them their lessons for me — but, for certain, the one we are most concerned with at present is that of the consumptive, Master George.