Cherryvale, Kansas

Journal Entry – October 9, 1871

The road into Cherryvale is little more than a vein of mud and clay, slick from last night’s rain. I followed it beneath a sky the color of tarnished silver, the horizon swallowing the morning light as if unwilling to share it. The wind hissed through the grass like a whisper of warning, yet I pressed on. Every step carried the scent of wet hay and horses — the perfume of opportunity, if one knows where to look.

The town itself is modest — a few streets, a church spire, the dull glint of windows that have seen too much. I found myself drawn to the hotel, a squat building of brick and timber where the firelight spilled from the barroom in uneven flickers. The innkeeper’s wife greeted me with the suspicion women reserve for their own kind, while her husband appraised me like a wager. I told them I’d worked before — serving travelers, pouring drinks, smiling when it suited me. They said they might have a place for a woman who can keep a room quiet and a glass full.

There’s something charming in how men loosen their tongues when whiskey unravels them. Their stories drip with vanity and gold — both easily taken if one listens closely enough. I watched the way they leaned over the counter, eyes fogged with want, and felt the pulse of something older stir within me. I have no need for spells when a glance will do. But still, I keep a charm in my pocket — a coin marked with a sigil I carved myself — for luck, or for something deeper.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to the hotel to begin my work. Tonight, I’ll watch the moon rise over the prairie and listen to the hum beneath the earth. Cherryvale hums like a living thing, unaware of what it’s invited in.