Entry 239, Surwich
Dear Diary,
Guthmyr thought I was being too harsh on Sandor. He tried to counsel me on my "current issues" and said something along the lines of some meaningless platitude that had no bearing on anything. "It's just a bastard."
"If it's just a bastard," said I, "then it's just a 'shoe', a 'dish', an object that does not think, feel, react, or reason. If it's 'just' a bastard, then please, let them all come in!" I stomped away from him before he could get another platitude out. I am so very tired of platitudes, diary. I am surrounded by them! They are driving me mad!
And, Light help me, the next person who tells me what is meant to be, will be, I shall say fie on my pregnancy and hit them with the first heavy object my hands finds!
I have still not spoken to Da about this. I have said very little in the book, and hardly look at it as I brew and plot and save for Jerald and Daniel's and this new babe's futures. I fear some of my clipped answers have given me away to others. Especially when mentions of Sandor are made. Still, no one probes, so my delicate soap bubble of privacy is kept unburst for the nonce. Mr D has made plans to join me here, perhaps teach Jerald how to fish. It would be kind of him, though I worry an extended absence in Surwich may raise eyebrows. Still, I will graciously host the both of them. I am starved for company that will not whisper.
Still, in brighter news (and there is always brighter news to remind one that they are not bereft!) Ivoria has taken liberties with Jerald's path. Oh, I am so thankful for my dear friend. The weight of figuring out what will be best for him is lifted little by little. The community whispers yet, and I remain with my head high.
The... the bastard has come calling, full of apologies for upsetting my home and marriage. I wish to hate him, Diary. He has said that he is going to follow Sandor (who has quit Surwich recently) and help him. I suppose that is all well and fine, please stay off my doorstep with your too-familiar face and eyes.
My chest aches. I think I shall lie down a while until it passes. Thank goodness the boys are sound sleepers.
Yours,
S.
Guthmyr thought I was being too harsh on Sandor. He tried to counsel me on my "current issues" and said something along the lines of some meaningless platitude that had no bearing on anything. "It's just a bastard."
"If it's just a bastard," said I, "then it's just a 'shoe', a 'dish', an object that does not think, feel, react, or reason. If it's 'just' a bastard, then please, let them all come in!" I stomped away from him before he could get another platitude out. I am so very tired of platitudes, diary. I am surrounded by them! They are driving me mad!
And, Light help me, the next person who tells me what is meant to be, will be, I shall say fie on my pregnancy and hit them with the first heavy object my hands finds!
I have still not spoken to Da about this. I have said very little in the book, and hardly look at it as I brew and plot and save for Jerald and Daniel's and this new babe's futures. I fear some of my clipped answers have given me away to others. Especially when mentions of Sandor are made. Still, no one probes, so my delicate soap bubble of privacy is kept unburst for the nonce. Mr D has made plans to join me here, perhaps teach Jerald how to fish. It would be kind of him, though I worry an extended absence in Surwich may raise eyebrows. Still, I will graciously host the both of them. I am starved for company that will not whisper.
Still, in brighter news (and there is always brighter news to remind one that they are not bereft!) Ivoria has taken liberties with Jerald's path. Oh, I am so thankful for my dear friend. The weight of figuring out what will be best for him is lifted little by little. The community whispers yet, and I remain with my head high.
The... the bastard has come calling, full of apologies for upsetting my home and marriage. I wish to hate him, Diary. He has said that he is going to follow Sandor (who has quit Surwich recently) and help him. I suppose that is all well and fine, please stay off my doorstep with your too-familiar face and eyes.
My chest aches. I think I shall lie down a while until it passes. Thank goodness the boys are sound sleepers.
Yours,
S.