MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

29 October. I did not intend to travel to the gardens this morning. I was to make my way over to St. Mary Steps and then double back. I started towards the Steps and then zigzagged my way through the alleys and the odd narrow path. I must have twisted myself around, and when I came upon the east entrance to the gardens at Rougemont Castle, I was utterly taken by surprise. As I think back on my morning’s walk, I remember the mist being thick and translucent, wispy like swirling steam from a kettle. When the air around me brightened, and I could see the railings on the bridge and the flowerpots. I was amongst the smoking chimneys of thatched cottages with their white sheets hanging on a line drying in the chill.

The mist kept a steady pace behind me, sometimes sneaking around and gaining the ground, tricking me with keeping all the things that would tease my inquisitive nature from my view. I always use my time walking to go over my daily schedule, but today, I don’t think those thoughts were a part of my musings. I’m sure that I was consumed with an array of ideas and feelings; I just can’t remember what. I remember walking; I don’t remember any particular thoughts. Lately, this has been a trend. I can read the entire newspaper, fold it up, put it down and not recall a single item of news or the reportage of any events. If I pick up the paper a second time, and a story catches my eye, I only have to read a sentence or two before I recall the entire content. This business extends to my journal-keeping. I make my daily, closed the book, and cap the pen. I tuck these treasures away only to return a few minutes later with every intention of making my daily, the deed already forgotten.

This odd forgetful habit is becoming disconcerting. If this forgetfulness is an element, a symptom of the Silent Passage or whatever silly nom de guerre is attached to this hellish condition, then when will it pass? When will I be able to breathe with relief because I no longer fear that I’ll forget who I am, where I live, my name, my age, or to eat?

When I realized where I was, where I had ended up, it was at that moment that the mist dissipated, thinning to a veil and lingering around the edges of shadows created by trees and shrubs in hibernation until spring.

Because it was early, earlier than usual for me—I must note that I have to start keeping track of how soon my mornings begin. I know I’m gaining time on waking up. The earlier I rise, the longer my "naps" have become in the afternoon.

Because it was early, all the night bugs had tired themselves and gone to sleep. The Reds and all the birds were slumbering. The old dogs gone hoarse from yelping were dreaming of youth, and the stray, feral cats had given up their sad, longing songs. The stillness I felt at the edge of the garden was as dense as anything you could imagine. As I stood there in the indigo shadow of the gatehouse, a flutter in the black on black of the shrubs and trees across the path, perhaps thirty or forty feet away, caught my attention. Moonlight on dead leaves, perhaps. I froze in place and kept my eyes on the spot I thought fluttered. I held my breath as if holding my breath would make me appear stationary. Nothing moved, but I had the sense that something hidden in the darkness was watching me. I took short breaths through my mouth and hoped that my chest was concealed beneath the cape of my greatcoat.

When I took a breath of final resolution, having decided this whole situation was a simple trick of the mind brought on by a starved stomach and an overactive imagination the shifting amorphous darkness formed a silhouette.

In a blink, the creature and I were faces to face. I felt and heard my heart beating, and I could hear the creature’s heart in unearthly syncopation. Its sulfurous and fetid breath collected under my nose. Fright surged through every vein in my body, making the pit of my stomach shudder and all my muscles clench. My fear was so intense that I could not scream. I could not take control and allow my survival instincts to sound the alarm. Fear paralyzed my throat. My tongue felt enormous, filling my mouth twofold. My heart pounded in every vein, pulsing at my temples and forehead.

The creature considered my person from head to foot while its head gently undulated like a cobra from side to side. Demonic eyes burned with malevolent judgment as they focused on my face. A black tumefied tongue flickered over darkened lips, almost as if in a moment of delicious savoring, and then lolled wolfishly.

I managed to close my eyes, which was a feat of strength and waited for the deadly blow that was sure to come.

I felt fresh air sweep over my face, drawing forward and around me as if filling in a void. When I opened my eyes, the creature had departed, or rather, vanished.

The night sky was brightening; dawn was creeping at the edges. The mist was thinning out, sinking into the lawn, converting into dew.

I must have stayed stationary for several moments. It took tremendous effort to force my muscles to move my limbs.

The morning had risen gloomy.

I wanted to get out of that garden and return to the safety of my home. I wanted to go back to Jonathan, feel his strength, and feel protected. The same type of flutter that drew my eye to the demon creature found me again, this time bringing my attention to the top of the gatehouse.

There sat that evil crow, silently watching. Perched majestically. Iridescent black. Blazing, cunning red eyes.

This incident is recorded to be forgotten. I cannot contain such horror and fright in my mind. Is this an effect of my current condition? Could the early awakening and the lack of rest be putting me in a suspended state between waking and sleeping where I am prone to nightmares?

I should remember to ask Teddy when next I see her.

Once home, I checked on Quincey, who was awake. His eyes were bloodshot and moist.

"I think I was sleeping," he offered. "On and off, little cat naps. I haven’t slept enough to dream; at least, I don’t remember dreaming. I’m starting to feel exhausted from trying to sleep." I heard the exasperation in his voice. "It’s not the type of fatigue that’ll put me to sleep; that would be too serendipitous. It’s that deep ache in the muscles that seeps through the bone into the marrow."

I wanted to offer that I felt the same and that we seemed to be in a cycle with each other, but I kept my thoughts to myself, hoping that doing so would allow him to feel significant in that I was concerned for his well-being and less focused on my thoughts and troubles. If my inquisitive son asked the right question, I would not be able to hold back revealing my morning’s event.

"The worst is the feeling in my legs," he said. "They’re restless as if they have somewhere to go."

"I could send for Dr. Morgan when the hour is decent."

"I’m sure it’s just thoughts in my mind; I want to get out of this room and out of this house. I’m sure that’s all it is."

"I can sympathize with the restlessness. You’re a better sport about it all than I would be, and certainly a better sport than your father."

Quincey’s frown was instantaneous. Will that tension ever pass? Again, I thought it best not to pursue this course of conversation, and so I guided it in another direction.

"After I bathe and change into some fresh clothes. How about escorting your mother to H&H. It’ll give those itchy feet a good working."

"I don’t know who has a more boring day, you with your endless wanderings and typewriting or father and his weary solicitor’s trudge mill."

I was about to protest that lounging in bed all day long was boring from my standpoint when Quincey smiled and started to climb from the bed.

"Very well, let’s see who can get freshened up the quickest."

And we were racing—

* * *

The H&H fellows enjoyed seeing Quincey this morning, although most kept their distance. A few produced handkerchiefs and began covering their nose and mouths in an attempt to appear as if they were coughing or sneezing, or just rubbing their noses. They are stodgy old men and don’t realize how obvious they are. It was amusing to Quincey, and I enjoyed seeing his cheer.

Quincey and his father are a different matter altogether. Jonathan did not greet us, feigning later, after I cornered him, that he was merely "too swamped with work." More than once, I observed Quincey watching Jonathan—Jonathan painfully, obviously ignoring his onlooker—and Quincey in utter impish delight at making his father so uncomfortable. This immature goofing is honestly beginning to takes its toll on one’s sensitive nerves.

After Quincey had taken his leave to return to Larkbear Hill, I suffered through a few stray, awkward questions from Yardley Marcus—who should, at his age, understand when and how to use a bar of soap—and then a lengthy story from Ronald Shamster about the Russian Flu. During his blather is where I began to formulate the theory that when Ronald tells a story, it’s a parenthetical narrative. The whole thing starts with good intentions, and then he becomes sidetracked, and this goes on and on until the parentheticals are so numerous that Ronald can’t remember the intentions of his original story. I can be overly polite.

If I could work the typewriter louder, I would, but I don’t think with the increase in noise, Ronald would speak louder. I also don’t think any attempt to set a pace with rhythmic typing would quicken his stories.

Thankfully, I didn’t spend more than two hours at H&H this morning. I thought it best to allow Jonathan to stew in his juices—perhaps with some distance between us, he’ll begin to notice my disapproval of his bellicose relationship with his son.

I finished the "N Files," which were thankfully short, and next, I’ll be on the "O’s." The end of the alphabet is clearly in sight. The pile diminishes with every visit. Billing is the agenda for tomorrow’s visit.

* * *

TELEGRAM: ARTHUR HOLMWOOD, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE: TO MINA HARKER, EXETER.

DEAREST MINA. WILL BE ARRIVING BY MOTORCAR THIS AFTERNOON. TAKING THE TRAIN PROVED INCONVENIENT. ART.

* * *

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

31 October. This afternoon I am waiting for Arthur. I am slightly irritated because I do not like waiting. I expect punctuality and most people who know me, understand my position. I do not cause others to wait, and I do not like waiting. I feel as if there’s nothing I can do. I can’t start a project, work needlepoint, or trowel in the glasshouse. There’s nothing I can do except wait, and waiting is such an awful waste of time.

Jonathan has expressed his displeasure at my invitation to Arthur without first consulting him. I thought that I had, but apparently, I didn’t. One of us has forgotten something somewhere!

My assurances that Arthur’s visit would be a short one were unheard. There’s that Harker stubborn streak rearing its head, and Jonathan wonders where his son gets his tenacity.

* * *

All morning I’ve been thinking of the Hare Cage that used to be out near the mews and it’s begun to puzzle me as to why. I seldom think of the cage and its inhabitant. However, today the memory lingers, so I sorted through my old diaries looking for the September volume of 1911. I couldn’t recall the actual day, but I remembered that it was towards the middle of the month, recalling that color was seeping through the trees and the leaves on the ground—the leaves that Quincey piled around the hutch in preparation for colder weather—were yellow. These small details I do remember. When I found the entry I was searching for, I discovered, to my disbelief, a fascinating and revealing entry—

"This is what he said, what my husband Jonathan Harker said—It is difficult to be empathetic and have murderous intentions at the same time."

Nothing more.

I will now do my best to record my memories with as much detail as possible in an attempt to understand the nature of the difficulty between my son and his father.

Overall, boys enter puberty near the ages of 9 to 10, perhaps 11. They have all these new changes happening as hormones run rampant through their little bodies. Of course, there is the awkward and patchy sprouting of body hair, the growth spurts, the breaking of their voices, and the eruption of spots. It’s an awful time for a child, yet there is safety in numbers when what is happening is happening to everyone at the same time. When this change is delayed, it can be devastating. Quincey suffered delayed puberty. By the age of 14, none of the changes that affected his schoolmates had yet to touch him. He was terribly self-conscious of his reed-thin body as his mates grew into young adults. His voice was high. He liked wearing his hair long, which naturally curled into ringlets. His mannerisms were effeminate. Although I never saw any evidence, I knew he was ridiculed and gossiped about. I could sense it, especially as he became more antisocial and hid in his room lost in a book. To his credit, he was able to shrug off such nastiness, and I think it shows today in his carriage.

For as much distress this lack of change caused Quincey, it caused more distress in his father. Jonathan feared the ridicule he perceived would come from others. He didn’t handle Quincey’s condition thoroughly. I would often caution him on his wince when he heard Quincey approaching or the brusque manner in which he responded to anything his son would say, whether a question, or observation, or in casual conversation. I don’t think Jonathan understood that Quincey would eventually grow out of his condition and catch-up with the maturity of his peers—all children do.

I urged Jonathan, in my quest to establish a modicum of peace, to build Quincey the rabbit hutch he promised to make a few years back.

Jonathan was reluctant but thought the idea would present a "goodwill" gesture towards his son—which was just a "goodwill" gesture to appease me.

Quincey explained to his father, in acerbic simplicity, "I’ve waited for you to build me a rabbit hutch for so long, that I no longer care to have one."

Quincey’s newest desire was to have what he referred to as a "Hare Cage."

I still think of it as a rabbit Hutch, but do consider there is a difference between rabbits and hares.

Quincey explained the difference between rabbits and hares when asked—"Hares are born with their all their fur and with their eyes opened. They are born in nests their parents make above the ground out of grass and leaves. Being born out in the open like this is a harsh reality for the leveret—baby hares—because they are forced to fight and find food for themselves. Rabbits are born hairless and blind in dirty holes in the ground. If you’re born in the dark, you need a lot of care. If you’re born in the light, you have a better chance—"

"That’s excellent, son," Jonathan offered in false praised. "Is there anything else unique to a hare?"

"Hares are larger and have longer ears."

"Yes, that’s a good observation, son. Anything else?"

"Hares have jointed skulls."

I remember thinking, ’How would my son know that a hare had a jointed skull?’ His knowledge fascinated me, but then he has always been ’gifted’ as they say. (It does bore me silly to hear a parent blathering about the attributes of their child as if all the other children in the world are mollusks. I’ve been a good mother in not having done such, and therefore, not embarrassing my offspring to eternal damnation by others.) Quincey has always been an avid reader, devouring the books Peter Hawkins left behind in his library. Jonathan and I have repeatedly impressed upon our son the power of knowledge. I remember being captivated by his understanding of hares because he had taken what he had read and was able to synthesize it into comprehensible language. He has his father’s gift.

I am finished blathering.

Jonathan, Rufs, and Quincey built a Hare Cage near the mews. I remember it being very involved and spectacular as far as Hare Cages go. It was a large structure modeled after our home. I remember all the fussing Jonathan and Rufs produced concerning how to get the window moldings just right.

Quincey pressed his concerns to keep the cage open-aired enough for the hares to have shelter, but also a sense of freedom.

There was a sizable swatch of yard protected by fencing, so the hares had plenty of space to roam without the fear of predators.

Rufs managed to catch two hares by setting a simple trap in Bull Meadow. Smudge and Bloat were the silly names Quincey gave them. I never knew which the female was and which the male was because I never had the interest to do so.

I remember seeing the hares boxing one morning—a very agitated and ferocious boxing match of paws—and I asked Quincey at breakfast if he knew anything that would explain their behavior.

"The female doesn’t want to copulate." Then he and his father flashed grins.

Father and son attended to the hares with a dedication I haven’t seen from the two of them since. Both were dutiful in the cleaning of the cage and the feeding of the animals, taking daily turns at the tasks without reminders or gripes.

There was a noble, but failed attempt at training; however, the Voice of Reason reminded the two Gamesmen that the hares were wild creatures with domesticity being the furthest thoughts from their minds. (I also believe that the hares understood that performing tricks for food was beneath them.)

Then there came a morning in early May; I had just come in from my constitutional when Quincey appeared before me. I distinctly remember his wide eyes and trembling as he extended the palms of his hands. At the sight of my anxious son, arms outstretched, my Mother’s Heart leaped into my throat, and I felt that all too familiar panic a mother feels when confronted with something unknown involving her child.

"Life, Mother," he said with his voice cracking, his hands shaking. "It’s life." Then I realized what it was he was offering; a small furry clump nestled in his palms.

Soon—sooner than expected—the Hares were a Drove. There was a reason Bloat no longer wished to copulate with Smudge!

Thursday, the 14th of September, 1911— I’m not sure how, or why, but I do remember feeling as if something were wrong. I experienced that prickly feeling that creeps up the back of one’s neck, sensitizing the little hairs and moistening the skin. I knew, as I often know such things, when the post has arrived with nary a ring of the bell, or where to find a lost spoon, or that Jonathan is in the house and what room he is in; I knew something had happened near the mews, at the Hare Cage.

There I found the three of them; Jonathan, brimming with anger and conflict; Rufs wringing his hands, shaking his head in bewilderment, eyes on his shoes; and Quincey, standing with slackened shoulders, head hung low, completely impuissant under his father’s critical gaze.

I expected Scripture quotes; none came.

On the ground, all of the hares—the entire Drove—all of them dead.

Quincey "carelessly and stupidly" had left the gate open, Jonathan told me later that evening, and a feral dog or a fox got to the hares and tore them apart. A senseless act of sport, not even for food; "Whatever it was just ripped heads off and left the rest to rot."

I remembered a few geese I had affection for who nested at the pond when I was a little girl—a fox, or a dog, had caught them by the neck and killed them; chewed their heads right off. I remember being terribly upset, beside myself with guilt that I could have done something, anything to stop their slaughter—but you can’t. Animals must do what animals do. Some have a gentle nature like humans, and some have a cruel nature like humans.

When I moved towards Quincey that day, I believe he confused my compassionate demeanor with anger, and so, he ran off to spare himself any further perceived punishments. I was dumbstruck from the carnage spread on the ground and couldn’t think fast enough. Otherwise, I would have attended to my son.

It strikes me odd, as I now recall, Jonathan didn’t console his son, as one would expect a father to do. Instead, he brushed passed me with an air of insolence and for a moment, I suspected in his mind, that I held some blame for the murder of the hares.

"Jonathan," I started, and he turned towards me with smoldering contempt, throwing up a palm in a halting gesture. His voice low and so self-controlled as to be frightening, "It is difficult to be empathetic and have murderous intentions at the same time."

I had nothing to say in return. That statement still resonates and brings a touch of heat to my cheeks.

The carcasses were buried, the cage deconstructed and used as kindling in the fireplace. The incident with the hares has never been spoken of since.

It is from that day forward that father and son have been opposing armies, and I am bloody damn tired of being caught in the mêlée.

There is a racket at the front of the house—

* * *

Arthur arrived in an ostentatious Rolls-Royce with a driver in livery. I understand the safety needs of a horn on a motorcar, but it can be, at times, the subject of abuse. If there were any queries as to whether Larkbear Hill had a visitor, they were answered two-fold. Horn and motorcar. Lord and livery.

"Wilhelmina—"

I put a stop to that address instantly, "Arthur Holmwood, you know very well that I do not answer to that antiquated moniker—"

He slipped off his Homburg, hung his head and feigned a scolded expression. Apart from the childish nature of his actions—an attempt at being coy or cute, I’m not sure—I was completely taken aback by his shaved head. All that thick, gorgeous hair removed. The center of his vanity always perfectly groomed with nary a hair out of place. Gone. Polished and without the usual dips and bumps one sees on other bald men. I noticed his ears were slightly pointed and well placed at the sides, which were always hidden by his tresses, and that his eyes were more intense . . . almost terrifyingly fierce.

"I am very sorry, my dear Mina Harker."

"Apology accepted, Lord Godalming," I playfully jabbed and had I blinked I would have missed a twinge of embarrassment in his expressions.

"You, my dear, are too much of a friend to use a title reserved for strangers and the Help."

His driver, Ashford—I have no idea if a first or surname—received instructions to handle the luggage. I was informed that arrangements had been made for Ashford at the Clarence. I offered that there was room in the Mews. "Jonathan had it all refashioned for Mrs. Brady and her—" but the private exchange between the two men put me in an awkward position, so I chose silence to better the situation.

"It is beastly, absolutely beastly of me to have never visited you and Jonathan at this magnificent and charming, yes, lovely house."

It was irksome to me to hear his apology. I don’t know how many holidays, parties and gatherings I’ve extended invitations, none of which he has accepted. We’ve always accepted his invitations, and he’s always been a gracious host. It’s my guess he doesn’t like to have the courtesy extended. Don’t gain the lead over Lord Godalming.

"Had I, I would have visited. There’s a first time for everything. It’s Georgian. Lovely. Boxy and filled with windows. Are there services? Conveniences?"

I wasn’t about to let the opportunity for an excellent ruse to pass, especially with Arthur. "Chamber pots, I’m afraid, and no servants to carry them out to the Bog House in the rears." The expression on his face was better than any sugary treat, so I continued, "You are much in favor here because Jonathan had new planks set in once he heard you were coming. And, oh, yes, he emptied the ash from the cesspit, which we don’t have done until Spring. If the weather allows, the privy shouldn’t be too chilly for you in the mornings."

"If it’s going to be too much trouble I can always have Ashford—"

"Of course, you silly fool, we are thoroughly updated with all the modern Edwardian amenities. Flushing toilets and water on tap."

"Are we Edwardians now? I’ve been out and about so much I’ve missed the change of guard."

"With your penchant for newspapers and Royals, I doubt that very much. You know every twiddle twaddle." My remark was ignored entirely.

"The Prince of Wales showed such promise with his endless pursuit of pleasure, his illicit affairs, the parties, the Balls, all those country house weekends and all that illegal gambling. It must have been terribly annoying trying to fill his days while waiting for the Old Gal to croak so he could be crowned King. However, here we are, still stuffy, ever still morally superior to the world and still shrieking the word ’deviant’ at anyone with a different attitude towards carnal pleasures. I rather enjoy Victorians. I love fighting against Victorian morals and their terrible attitudes towards sexual nature. Do you think George will have his epoch?"

"I’ll have none of that business while you are visiting."

"Carnal pleasures?"

"Arthur, you know very well what I mean. If you and Jonathan get into a quarrel—" Christmas of ’09. I still haven’t discovered the nature of that loud squabble that put a damper on those festivities lasting the entire weekend. We were back at in Exeter before New Year’s Eve.

"No worries ’ere, ducky. Mine’s a tight lip," he mimicked in some lowbrow accent I couldn’t recognize.

I immediately noticed his eyes shifting to my forehead, and I’m quite sure I blushed—a challenge to my fortitude against doing such things that cause embarrassment—as I dipped my head down out of reflex, praying that one or two curls would fall forward and cover the blemish.

"It’s hardly noticeable," he whispered in his deep fatherly tones.

"After twenty years, I don’t even consider the thought of noticing it anymore," I replied even though it was a complete barefaced lie. I’m aware of the scar—Abraham’s unclean re-minder—at every opportunity, I take to confirm that I still have a reflection in the mirror. Although to be honest, I never look at it directly, and I’ve never been fond of communion wafers since.

"It is hardly noticeable," he repeated, kindly.

"Thank you," I offered. I wanted to add, ’then stop drawing attention to my forehead,’ but I kept my tongue and tried a reassuring smile.

"However, what is noticeable is the fact that you don’t ever seem to age."

"You’re not here five seconds, and already you’re making up stories."

"I dare say it to be true. You look far younger than others of your generation with children as old as yours."

"I have a son; I don’t have children." At that moment, I felt a strange tug in my heart; with those few words, I had betrayed my little Lucy. I would have had children had she lived.

"He’s hardly a child. At my recollection, he’s nearing seventeen or eighteen. Budding into manhood. Am I right?"

"Seventeen and, yes, he’s budding into something. He’s at that age where everything is a test of wills and tenacity."

"Ah, yes. Loves and dotes on Mother Mina who is an angel and can do and say no wrong and loathes his father whom he considers a demon and couldn’t possibly understand an iota of anything that holds the interest of a teenager."

"Well, you have that all wrapped up, don’t you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a Holmwood progeny was traipsing around the countryside."

"I don’t know that there isn’t."

We both laughed heartedly for the same reason.

"Perish the thought," Arthur chuckled.

It is nice to be around comfortable old friends and to begin again where one left off without the awkwardness of pretending to remember trivialities long forgotten; a trait I enjoy about Arthur.

"Your suite is all ready for—"

"Ah, the Widow’s Chamber."

"That sounds positively medieval."

"A little collection of rooms tucked away at the back of the house to keep the elderly at bay. I think all the best homes should have a Widow’s Chambers. The idea is to stick the old out of the way, so it becomes a chore for them to join the rest of the household."

"Mrs. Hawkins had a lovely suite of rooms, the entire third floor, and I have the sense that it suited her just fine," I said, hoping my tone didn’t betray my slight irritation at the negative connotations I was hearing. "It’s very charming. Windows on all sides."

"Splendid. Let’s see this Widow’s Chamber in which you wish to ensconce me. Do all the windows have lovely views? I would like to settle in immediately. Please have your cook—you do have a cook?"

I tightened instantly, and I knew it showed on my face. Curtly I said, "Yes, I have a household staff. It’s small, but devoted to taking care of this family of mine and will be at your service."

The deep black pools of his eyes took me in, and I started to drown. My mood shifted uncontrollably.

It’s presently my current order of business to try and not take everything so seriously. I need to find levity in the usual dribble that otherwise irritates me into splitting hairs.

"Splendid," rolled off his tongue. "The two of us need biscuits and tea and then, what the two of us need to have is a very long chat."

I wholeheartedly agreed, and those are the actual events that followed in that exact sequence.

* * *

It’s so extraordinary to hear of Arthur’s travels and exotic tales. Almost as if one is holding an audience with Sir Richard Burton and his Princess, Scheherazade. How wonderful it must be to have the freedom and financial means to "Go where the day takes you," as Arthur says. To explore. To travel. To make your adventures. At times, however, he can sound entirely self-serving and hedonistic. I question if he can make it through an entire sentence without using the word "I." There’s his new embraced mantra of "If it harms no other, then do as you will." Not the exact words used; the phrase, of course, has more flair when he says it, but this is as close as I can remember. The general purpose is to replace all Ten Commandments with one! It’s easy to become enthralled with his meticulous reminiscence of Ceylon and Marrakech, and the description of his approach to Kanchenjunga—"The peak looming above, disappearing into the heavens,"—and the learning of yoga techniques from ancient mystics in the cliff-side monasteries of Tibet. What rich and rewarding experiences—

* * *

1 November. It’s been five months and still no blood flow. I’ve heard from some of the elderly ladies who dominate the Rose Society that there are women still considered "youthful," who have an early Change, and "One shouldn’t complain because it’s best to get it over with." I am not mentally prepared to transpire—or is it transcend—into the ranks of being a matron, which is a slight blink away from Dowager, which is an ugly word and disposition.

This whole business of aging happens so slowly that one doesn’t even notice—

Next Chapter: CHAPTER VIII