The 21st volume of the life and times of Emma Lynne Clayborne, a Lady of Lindebo.

I am terribly vexed as to the actions of the servants of the household. I watch them as I have usually been known to do. Some of them refuse to speak to the rest of the house and others tend to be lost in their own thoughts, usually indulging in pregnant trancelike stares out the windows. I wonder if they feel as I do about what might be out in Lindebo. What possible happenings could there be around town that they will never fully be aware of or know. One woman, Beatrice, an elderly matron, I had found myself watching for a long period of time. She watered the plants in the sun room as I spied from one of my favorite hiding spots beyond its doors. She stopped in the midst of her pouring to look out the vaulted windows at the outer grounds. Beatrice appeared quizzical for a moment and then the queerest thing happened.

She intentionally chomped her teeth in her mouth a moment's time and set the pitcher down. Beatrice then lifted her hands close to her face palms down as if by bringing them closer, she could see clearer. This is as I suspect because of her elder age and rigid disposition. The woman watched her hands closely, tracing their sinuous veins from wrist to knuckle and up to bulbous digits that skewed the fingers from their originally intended lineages. Then, quicker than I had expected, she flipped her hands over to view the lines and loose skin and proceeded to roll her awkward thumbs along the aged pads.

Beatrice remained there for quite some time, suspended in a veil of beauty that was unlike anything I had ever seen before. To know what she knows. The exquisite sunlight seemed powerless against her even as it made a lazy white halo upon her grey crown. Emotion rolled over me and my eyes began to well the infinite storage of tears. Beatrice suddenly grunted and picked up the pitcher, continuing her work.

I felt compelled to reach out to her, to take her hands in my own incapable pair, and to hold her deeply to myself. I felt it take me and realized that I was then standing right in front of her with my hands enfolded over my breast. I panicked and ran from the room utterly frightened of her reaction to me.

I was later compelled to ask Abigail of Beatrice, though nothing came of it.