Dimheim

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.

[At last this log is written in again, in that firm, upright, and elegant hand.]

Entry the eighth.

"Do you know how to read, Missus Hopmead?" Taite looked up from the half-furled parchment sitting beside her bowl of pottage. 

"Aye, a bit, miss. What've you got there?" The portly woman wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and stepped up to the table. 

The raven-haired young woman offered the letter while her mouth worked on a fresh spoonful of stew. 

"Oi, it's from the doctor. You want me to read it out to you?" asked the cook.

Entry the seventh — though a paltry one, for I only wish to quickly communicate my concerns about the treatment of Miss Rue.

I understand well your inclination to assume that Rue's troubles are all in the mind, horrors and fantasies planted by some Woman who addled her with herbs to compel her service. And I shall not contest the fact that Rue is disturbed, at times irrational, and is frequently antisocial in behavior.

Entry the sixth.

I am glad to have been of service with your leg, for I was able both to save you the discomfort of redoing your own stitches and also to hone my barbering experience as hoped. As I have mentioned before, I have spent many years at needle, but flesh was never something I had the opportunity to sew.

[The hand that writes today is not as upright and elegant as it usually is. It is tired, a bit wobbly.]

Entry the fifth.

While I was smoking — or at least feigning a smoke — with friends at the Prancing Pony, a Woman arrived with an arrow-wound, apparently received during an encounter with a thug on the Bree-lands' roads. As there were a number of experienced healers present, I was needed only as an assistant, though I would like to flatter myself and say I was of a little bit of use.

Entry the fourth.

I will first say that I am very sorry that my intrusion, the one occasion I did not think to knock, was timed so poorly. I hope nothing ill comes of your wound, or otherwise.

[Underneath one of Bíld's prettily-drawn filigrees is a drawing of a Man's body, the skeleton showing through an outline of flesh. The hand that rendered it is neither that of a skilled anatomist or pen-and-ink artist; it does, however, function as a reasonably clear schematic. The most attention and detail has been given to the long bones, which each have a measurement listed next to them.

Entry the second.

Before aught else I must apologize for my shameful display. I did not expect my emotions to get so far out of hand, and I am vastly embarrassed. It must have been a mortification for you to watch as well, and I am very sorry. I felt your patience and compassion and am truly appreciative. May you not have to offer them again!

[A filigree is drawn as a divider.]