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rushed

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As with all personal logs, under the strongest possible protection, including wards, seals and ciphers:

Fuck, but I'm tired; still, it looks promising along the southwest. Montgomery's artillery and our artificery is doing what it does best, and we might just be hurting Rommel a little. Every little bit helps.

Our artificer's good, but...fuck, I miss Will. I haven't even answered his letter about Malfoy. I hope I can do that tonight.

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amused

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It's been thirty years since I was a frustrated adolescent, but they still keep throwing themselves in my path.

Reminds me a bit of Saunders back when, this Moody kid--all balls and elbows and feet. Which are perpetually in his mouth.

But he's right. The peacock's a very good sign. And Goyle and Delgardie will be so relieved to hear of it. Which will give poor Saunders a much-needed break.

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hopeful

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Fortune ordered Kyteler to stop looking for Lord Leffoy when they declared her dead. It is a waste of our resources, or so they say. I smell Mathers all over that, myself.

When Kyteler showed up at the service, Scalara looked at him as though he’d stabbed her through the heart, and Delgardie very nearly cut him dead. Goyle wasn’t talking to anyone, so no-one took that amiss, but I knew, and I was right, that the Old Man would not give up so easily. I tried to tell Boutreaux that too, but none of them listened. He didn’t give up on Saunders, after all, even if it was Delgardie who finally found him.

Today he met with us all at Scalara’s salon (which is a dreadful place to be in the morning). He had Scalara with him, and Rosenthal, too—not Vince, but the younger one, whom I hadn’t met. He looked like he’d never been in a whorehouse before, and he probably hasn’t. Even Penrose was more comfortable. (Of course I would expect Selina Penrose’s son to be comfortable anywhere on earth, or possibly nowhere at all.)

I was right. He has not given up on Lord Leffoy. If Scalara’s that good, why is she running a bawdy house? Rosenthal and Scalara had a bloody mile of parchment covered with numbers and horary charts and geomantic chickenscratch. The two of them think they can find Leffoy in her sons’ charts. I didn’t think Scalara was a morning person, but she was in a much better mood than the last time I saw her. Then again, she was awfully close to Leffoy herself, and she must have been relieved to have hope that Leffoy is alive.

In other news, children are growing up much too fast these days, and I can’t think it’s all because of the war. Sam’s Dillybird has turned out so pretty that Sam’s been asked to sell him in China, and Aristotle Mablin’s son was making eyes at me. How is it that those two aren’t together? They must not know about each other. Perhaps they’re in different colleges.