30 August 1692, Wednesday
I am dead.
I am certain of it. I am dead. My heart does not beat. I do not breathe. I sit here writing this and I do not know how.
The last thing I remember before waking in the abandoned house was sitting outside the prison where they hold Lizzie. I had taken to sitting there whilst Oliver talked to this fellow over here, bribed that one over there, making plans to rescue Lizzie so we could get her far away from here. I had been reciting “To My Dear and Loving Husband,” hoping Lizzie could hear me through the thick wall dividing us:
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that t
