Vanessa Chapman’s diary
Healing. Can write a little, can’t paint. No clay, of course. Weather beautiful, would swim every day if not for cursed wrist. Instead I comb the beach and the wood, bring things back, arrange and rearrange and rearrange again.
G thinks me very odd! She comes often with fresh food and village gossip. She knows everyone but, like me, prefers solitude to crowds. She knows stories about the island, about when the trees fell, about people being swept away trying to cross. She told me this, too: years ago, hundreds of years ago, the villagers used to bury the dead out here on Eris, to keep them safe from wolves.