Louisville, KY

Journal Entry – September 21, 1871

The air hangs thick with the scent of wagon grease, smears of black oil mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil. As I walk the cobblestone streets, the sharp snap of tailor’s pins meets my ears, each prick a little treaty of blood inked in silence. The clouds loom heavy, threatening to unleash their burden upon the restless city; even the wind whispers secrets of what is to come, a low, ominous murmur that travels through the alleyways like a warning.

Abigail flits about, her curious gaze tracing the contours of every shadow, the way light bends at the edges of a secret. Her laughter, too bright for this oppressive day, is a fragile mask. I catch the briefest glance from her, wide-eyed and unknowing, and wonder how far she would wander into the fog of unspoken truths. We share the same breath, yet the distance stretches like a taut rope; her innocence wraps around her like a gossamer veil, one I might tear if I tread too close.

The debt of knowing looms heavy in my heart, a ledger of unbalanced accounts. I touch the fabric of my dress, a deliberate caress of its cool silk; the world craves charm, and I am no less a trader. Each exchange is marked by a subtle shift, a weight pressing down upon our unspoken agreements. Time slips away, a hushed promise of what the night might unveil, shadows thickening around us.

As the sky darkens, the silence thickens, and we dance on the edge of revelation. I feel the grimoire’s weight even when it’s not in my hands. The map, folded and hidden, thrums like a second pulse. Something is watching—waiting. Not the sisters. Not Ma. Something older. The mark on my palm aches like a tether. I do not know what will meet me when the lanterns return, only that I must walk toward it. And I will not walk alone.