[This is an optional chapter and not part of the novel proper. You may skip it entirely or read it at any time. It was written to fill a gap in publishing.]
[Author’s note: The events of “Witches, Boys, and Other Monsters” start in June of 1836. This journal begins about two months after the flashback in chapter 13 “Burn”]
September 17th, 1816
Dear Master Gregory,
Dear Gregory,
Dear Master Gregory,
First off, to anyone reading this, I am not a crazy person. I do not believe in spirits, or that by writing these words in this journal that they will, by Song, be read by Master Gregory. He is dead and technically illiterate gone. But, I’m still here and I just need someone to write to. It’s easier that way.
Secondly, you are a thief, reading this without my permission. Put this journal down now, then go say you are sorry, by— I don’t know— picking up some litter or something. I’ll wait…
Still here? You littering thief. Okay, just checking,
-Eliza Scaggs
Dear Master Gregory,
Things have been interesting tough since you’ve… been gone killed.
It’s more difficult than I thought, trying to make money with magic. I’ve got a fire spark now, so I can make fire… but so can anyone with a flint and kindling, so I don’t see how that helps very much.
I got caught in the rain last week, freezing and shivering until I used it to heat myself. I was still wet, just not cold. It’s an odd thought that I’ll never suffer from being too cold ever again, and I’m fireproof, so I’ll only suffer from heat up to a point. I suppose it’s convenient, but it makes me feel like something… other than human.
Food is still a problem.
September 21, 1816
Dear Master Gregory,
I now have a job at an inn, heating bath water. It’s a place called the “Blue Stag,” on the road through the Wesmoors. It’s really just an old, rundown manor house, but it gets regular business.
The innkeep knows I’m a “witch.” I thought it best to be upfront with him rather than risking a surprise later on. He seems good, okay, non-homicidal about it, so long as none of the guests find out… or his wife. But with all his pulling me aside and whispering, she probably thinks we’re fooling around.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Joy (sigh).
The money is not great, but it’s enough for a very small room of my own. Although by the looks of it, no windows and off the common room, I’d wager it’s just an old closet.
How the hells did you make money? Is something I would like to ask you, if you weren’t dead, sorry.
I’m trying very hard not to think about Josephine.
September 25, 1816
I feel sick… rich but sick. There’s a peculiar man at the inn, an Orleasian who goes by Alphonzo. He was smooth talking just about anyone he could find into playing him at poker. And… either he’s the luckiest man in the world or a cheat. The odds of pulling two full houses in a row, it shouldn’t happen more than one time in a thousand. But for him, “one time in a thousand” works out to just about once per game.
During one of his lulls, when he’d already swindled every traveler at the inn and was waiting for the next batch to arrive, I asked if he would show me how to play. When he tried the same trick on me, I used a delusion to make him think the full house was my hand, not his. He sat there with a confused look on his face for a full minute, before sliding 20 pence over to me.
I thought I’d feel good about it. Justice of a sort. But it felt wrong touching the coins, I just wanted to give it back. It wasn’t about the man. Songs knows, he didn’t deserve the money, and all the people it belonged to were already gone—
It’s what you used to say about having a spark. Be worthy of it. Cheating at cards was not that.
To my chagrin, the innkeep’s wife had been watching over my shoulder. I thought I was done for, that she’d scream “Witch!” and run me out of town. Instead, she winked at me, then brought both me and Alphonzo “a round on the house” before slapping him on the back, saying, “She just got lucky. You’ll get her next game.”
When I got up to try to excuse myself, she used “which” (sounding very much like she meant “witch”) three times in the same sentence and sat me back down.
All told, I took him for 4 sovereigns.
Before I knew it, the innkeep’s wife was my new best friend, going on about what a wonderful new “partnership” we’ll have, how she’ll bring in all the gamblers, and I’ll clean them out for a “full” quarter of the take… what with both her and her husband as my partners, and then the upkeep of the inn requiring its own share. “We’ll make a fortune!” she said.
I tried to decline flatly, then ended up telling her I’d think about it, “but don’t get your hopes up.”
She went off and stewed for an hour. Then she made an offhand comment about how I should be more grateful, and then mentioned witch burnings... how it was so “lovely” that they didn’t do that sort of thing anymore… at least not around here… not as long as the Church didn’t get involved… not as long as mages like me, helped out regular folk like her husband and her.
And the whole time she’s talking, she’s got this shit-eating smug grin on her face, you know the one, “you better do what I say.”
And all I can think of is the time I tried to cook a chicken with my fire spark. How its insides turned to ash while the outside stayed raw.
And I’m thinking… What if I can’t control it. What if she keeps saying the wrong thing?
The songs-damned chicken… it was so easy, too easy. It scares me.
You once joked about accidentally sparking someone. A nun, if I remember. You said she wet herself, but was, more or less, okay.
But the fire spark. It’s dangerous. Like I’m being forced to hold a loaded pistol to the forehead of everyone I ever have a conversation with. And my finger is glued to the trigger.
The day someone says just the wrong thing…
Nothing bad will ever happen. I am in control. I am always in control. But I always always have to be. It’s exhausting.
I told the innkeep’s wife I’d reconsider her offer, that we’ll talk details tomorrow.
I’ll sneak out later tonight.
Thanks for listening… you littering thief,
-Eliza
