Wednesday, August 31st, 1870

Dear Diary:

Little Weylyn, the name bestowed upon the Wytchwoods’ new pup, is an absolute doll! I think I shall love him entirely too much. I have already decided to ply him with sweets and presents until it is time to send him next door to Mama and Papa. I am happy to report that, after a trying birth that was a credit to Dr. Hyde’s skill as well as to the magic and midwifery of Captain Manx and Finna respectively, both Mama and baby are as healthy as can be.

After the Cesarian-section surgery, which was performed with the aid of silver instruments and the aforementioned magics,  Kylerra shifted into her wolf form and ran. A normal woman might have fainted, or at least remained abed. Not a werewolf, it would seem. I took the lovely boy while his Mama paid heed to her long denied urges. Immediately, I began to coo silly nonsense. My heart swelled with love even before Danyell officially pronounced me godmother.

Once little Weylyn had been reunited with his parents, I went to check on Captain Manx. His magics had done much, although I can’t say how, and he hurried away in a state of exhaustion. I found him rejuvenating in a strange, light-filled chamber of his tower. We spoke for some time until I feared that I offered less comfort than distraction, so I left him to his rest. I finished the night at the clinic, where I assisted the doctor in cleaning the operating area. I dislike the scent of blood, but I felt the need to be of help to my friends. They had done so much for Kylerra, while I had done so little. Besides, it will soon be my turn.

As to my state, I have spoken with the doctor about the possibility of traveling abroad. Already, my corset laces less tightly than before. It cannot be long before people begin to notice. Perhaps the traditional thing is what is best for me: travel to the “continent” for a twelvemonth. I can see my child settled in a respectable home or other establishment before returning to Caledon, my reputation relatively untarnished. Most importantly, my child’s reputation would be untarnished. He – I have already started calling him a boy – would never know the shame of growing up fatherless.

I don’t know what to do, Diary. Fortunately, time is sometimes kinder than fate. Nothing need be decided today – nothing, that is, except for whether or not it is actually possible to order Matilda to carry a chamber pot everywhere I go in case I have a sudden need of it. Honestly, Diary! The child must be growing. Either that, or my bladder is shrinking. I am certain this is merely one of many embarrassments to come. But I deserve them, don’t I? Heartily, I do.

Your Ashamed,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

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