We buried Harrison under a maple tree. He began his final rest under gleaming stars and flat leaves. The soil is rich, he’ll have no want for company, and the threat of death is no longer as potent to him, so I consider him in good standing. The Five are now Four. We mourn our companion, but still we celebrate the arrival of our newest, and the coming of our first victory. On the eve of the 21st we were Five again, in a way, as we gathered round and said hello to the darling child. The wear of shock has worn off now and so I can properly see the world again. She is lovely. I’ve taken the time to bathe her in wellwater, a process she was thoroughly displeased with and has left her down in the lightest form, so delicate it floats in the moonlight. I can’t say I’ve seen anything like her before, nor has anyone else, for that matter. However, it seems to me she has the handsome little visage of an infant harpy of myth, though she is no myth. She lays cooing next to me as I write.

We’ve found an old farm’s abandoned homestead to call our own for the time being. David’s family lives close by, though I doubt they’d be thrilled to have what they’d inevitably call a demon child in their home, so the two of us stay here while the other three visit the Duvals.

I am so very glad my friends know my real name; not even the Deschampses knew it. I do hope the Deschampses and Hugos are well, though I can’t imagine they’ve worsened in my absence. The curse is clear now: all who come near me are at imminent risk. I have a shadow over me. I must sleep. My weariness amazes me. The child drifts on a cloud of dreamy wakefulness herself, and I must oblige her. I’ll read my previous entry in the morning. I wrote it on the road to Salinas and can’t quite recall what it said. Good night, Ottos. I hope the world has healed by morning light.