I came the quickest way, across the glaur, when I was called, my heart almost clearing my body in my haste.

Too soon, yet. The family is up-stairs, the ceiling weighted by them. I keep where they cannot tell my presence or its dread import. The Bible lies poised here, by guttering candle. 

What cruelty: a month past the same Book lay joyous open on this same table. That day, heads canted over my shoulder, all watched my pen inscribe a name they followed with their lips to test their liking of it. A child came alive by my blessed hand. As proof, Ann brought in her bundle and shaped his finger to the name. This is you, by God’s grace, she said.

What bitter gift: to write such bonny script, yet never of my own. I craved to record more: the way the bairn’s hair went; his jewelled stare; the nose that might one day have suited a fight, so flat it was; my own heart-sore jealousy.

No matter now.

One by one, they descend. Their footsteps want conviction; they all come in to stand, helpless as cattle, or bench themselves against the wall.

Ann’s man is last down. Above him rises a grievous bleating, not wind-borne. He sits by and nods. Only the time to be settled; I make best guess: betwixt eight and nine o’clock.

I touch nib to page, too hard. The ink spreads, like blood, to spoil all space below.