Dear Diary,

They’ve moved me to the night shift again, which means floundering about in the dark whilst attempting and restoke the fire and sweep off the rugs. Leave it to the Rathods to take up the idea that a maid should be neither seen nor heard. Well, they shall hear me alright if I bang the dickens out of my shins because it’s too ruddy dark to dust by the candlelight. I shouldn’t mind so terribly but for it means sleeping away the best hours of the day, and that the whole home is so lonesome and still while I work. All the same, I’ll hold that it's a thing for sure to be awake and watching as the dawn-light first breaks over the edge of the sea, glowing the sky peach and pearl.

To tell truth, my real grievance with the new hours is that I barely catch sight of Haverfall's occupants... and he’s here again (no unpleasant sight to catch).  Aye, you know the one I mean; the godson. All dark hair and pale hands and quiet words. I swear I’ve never seen such blue eyes. The other morning when I passed him in the parlor (doubtless looking a sight after the night's work and ready to collapse asleep in my cot) I wondered if I could not feel those eyes following me. But when I turned the bloke was buried in some book, same as ever. (In true fact I think he only glances up when he’s vexed at having the place cleaned whilst trying to study; many a time past I’ve seen him withdraw to the farthest corner of a room when I come to do the dusting.)  Of course this is all a silly girl’s fancy, as Mr. Picton would say, the stodgy old dear (I think all these years of butler-ing are sapping away his sense of humor, which makes him all the better to tease.) But girl’s fancy as it may be, whatever else is a diary for than daydreaming? 

The godson pays no heed to me anyway - no one does. Mr. Picton likes to repeat some awful witticism about good staff being as patterned wallpaper; unnoticed but leaving a vague, pleasant impression. While I do aspire to greater things than vague pleasantry, going unwatched suits me fine. There are so many secrets to an ancient house like this, and I’m well pleased to be left on my own to discover them. I love to wander the sandy ruins of the old fort and search out all the hidden corners of the place.  Just last week I discovered a cluster of bluebells and nightshade growing wild in the crook of a wall, little violet jewels in the sunlight. There’s much loveliness here. Some folk call Haverfall lonely or dull, far as we are from the city, but I think the sea is good magic, and that’s the truth. Walking about the forgotten ramparts makes me feel like some grand old queen, striding cross her palace at the edge of sparkling shores.

I’d spend all my time in rambling 'round the grounds if I could, but as always there’s the work to eat up my time. The house is full of folk again, and uneasy folk at that. (Or they are so far as I can tell from the talk; I barely cross a soul now besides the staff working these night hours.) Lord Rathod's siblings are all here; the eldest sister, stern as always, the middle one flitting about and making a right racket with her music, and the youngest brother, an amiable scoundrel of a fellow. As I say, there’s an ill ease about them. I’ve stepped past many a tense discussion in the last week, before my shift was changed. There are sudden conferences and muttered words in corners… it would be a lie to say I’m not curious what it is they all can have to whisper so intent about.

-Anna