Dearest Josephine

dating back to the 1400s. Maybe I’ll go next week.
Final bit of news: I applied for a job at Sassenach Bakery. Of course, I don’t plan to stay in Atteberry all year, but I need a reason to leave the estate and interact with other humans. Can’t you imagine me in an apron, with flour on my cheeks?
Love, the future winner of The Great British Bake Off,
Josie
From: Josie De Clare <JDeClare@mailbox.com>
Sent: Friday, July 1, 12:40 PM
To: Faith Moretti <Kardashian_4Life@mailbox.com>
Subject: I ALMOST KILLED SOMEONE
Faith, I threatened a boy with a sword—an actual blade from the nineteenth century. I’m not a violent person. Dad gave me a bottle of mace when I turned sixteen, but I never used it, not even when Trevor McGreevy scared me in the school carpark.
My time at Cadwallader must’ve changed me.
This morning I heard a noise—footsteps, a door slam, the occasional cough. Norman and Martha had gone to Durham for the day, so I assumed a burglar had broken into the manor. In retrospect, I’m not sure what I planned to do once I caught the culprit, but I jumped out of bed, shoved my feet into slippers, and crept down the hallway.
I pried an antique sword off the wall (Cadwallader possesses a lot of ornamental weapons), then snuck down the servants’ stairwell. I held the blade like a cricket bat and charged into the kitchen, yelling, “Whoever you are, get out of my home.”
Go ahead. Have a laugh. I already spent an hour facedown in my pillow, utterly humiliated. Just think about what might’ve happened if I had attacked first, asked questions later.
A boy stood near the furnace with an armful of firewood. He gawked at me—my sword and Donut Disturb pyjamas—and dropped the logs. He apologized, said his grandparents had told him I was at work. That’s right. I almost killed Norman and Martha’s grandson.
He introduced himself as Oliver McLaughlin, then claimed he’d noticed I was running low on firewood and had used Norman’s spare key to open the back door. His outfit struck me as rather odd. He wore loafers, khaki shorts, and a thick, wool jumper in June.
Pause the narrative. Let me describe this Oliver person to you. He has a young face, but I suspect he’s several years older than us. His expression seems one of perpetual amusement, as if he heard a joke and never stopped laughing at it. His hair sticks up like cowlicks, perhaps mussed from sleep. And OMG the colour. He must have dyed his black hair ginger months ago, because it’s grown out, leaving him with a calico look.
Oliver knelt to gather the logs while I tried to fit my sword into a cupboard. He stacked wood near the furnace, and I rushed to make him a cup of tea like a good Brit.
He must’ve seen my empty Pot Noodle containers in the sink, because he smiled, his cheeks scrunching, his eyes sparkling as if he knew a secret about me. Maybe he noticed the giant pom-poms on my slippers or the interior design notes scattered across the kitchen table.
We talked for a polite amount of time. Oliver told me he studies medicine at the University of Edinburgh but took a gap semester so he could help Norman and Martha with the farm. He plans to stay in Atteberry until next year.
For someone who broke into my home, Oliver isn’t so bad. There’s a cosiness about him as if he should only wear overcoats and knitted scarves. He smells like patchouli, and he has a small anchor tattooed on his wrist. (I hope my description paints a vivid picture.)
Anyway, I felt less embarrassed when he spilled tea on his shorts. I might’ve even laughed when he tripped on a stray log. He laughed too. That’s when I knew I didn’t mind him. People who laugh at themselves make superb company.
How was your coffee date?
Josie
P.S. I talked to Norman about Cadwallader. He told me the Hawthorne Family bought the estate in 1892. They owned it until the late 1900s, which is why I can’t find more evidence of Elias in the house. A lot can get lost in two hundred years.

EIGHT
ELIAS
May 21, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I completed the first three chapters of my novel, therefore committing myself to the story and its exposition. Words—more so the authoring of them—demand our bareness, do they not? My headmaster once said we take from books what we bring to them, meaning books are but reflections of us. I share that belief now. For the sake of literature, I undressed on a page. I exposed myself in a quiet intimacy. Now I am seen and spent, and I have no more to show.
The novel reflects me, perhaps more than I intended.
Since the ball, my residing guests have seemed altered. Lorelai paints alone on the patio most days. She does not speak to me at length nor look at my face. In contrast, Arthur wants to talk, always. He forces me into conversations about his family whenever we go to town. He sparks discussions about women and travel. Indeed, after several pints, he becomes sentimental. Just last night he spent an hour reminiscing about our school days and cried when I mentioned the mouse we used to keep in a box under my bed.
I believe Mr. Banes has written to him and requested his return to Durham. Arthur hates the thought of working for his father. He wishes to study music in Paris and tour Europe. For the longest time, he even considered joining the navy. He is more tenderhearted than one might expect. Any change or worry, no matter how slight, traps him in a pit of nostalgia. He only seems to remember the good, though. His memories of Eton include recreations in the yard and our secret society gatherings, not the