I blinked.

Was he being nice?

I would certainly write this down for posterity in my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary. “The Black Rusty Crow was very nearly not entirely horrible.”

He was kicking at leaves. Then he said, “I know tha thinks I’m a bad un, and mebbe I am, but I’ve got reasons for not trusting wimmen. Anyway I can’t do owt to please ’em. What they want I can’t give ’em. I’m a bad lot and that’s the end of it.”

He did seem truly upset for once.

I tried to think of something to say.

“Well, you’re nice to the owlets, sort of. And your dog.”

Cain laughed.

“Oh, well, there we are then, the solution. I’ll go out with one of the owlets—or me dog.”

The idea was so mad that we both started laughing.

He looks completely different when he laughs.

How strange.

Then he said, “Well, I’d best be off. It’s way past your bedtime.”

Oh yes, he had to spoil it.

I said, “I’m not going to go to bed tonight actually. I often stay up all night if I like. I may be part owl.”

Why had I said that?

What did I mean?

He said, “Ooooooo, you bloody rebel. See thee, nobbly knees. Twit twooo.”

A naturally cracking kisser

IT’S BEEN A WHOLE week since Honey left and a week since Alex came back. I didn’t see him again after the “Candice” kiss thing. I avoided the village until I knew he would have gone back to Liverpool. I’ve tried to busy myself by joining in at Dother Hall and going to every class. And I nearly joined the Dobbinses’ knitting group. But my smiley face has been hiding the tears of a clown.

I didn’t tell the Tree Sisters about Alex and Candice. They’ve all got boys to think about. Flossie wants us to go looking for Seth, but I told her that every time I see the Bottomly sisters they give me the evils.

I wish something would happen. It’s like the calm before a storm somehow. Jo is madly plotting with Phil about how he is going to get himself sent back to Woolfe. There’s been no sign of Charlie, or any of the others from Woolfe—so much for Charlie wanting to talk about “stuff.” We’ve been to the tree quite a few times and they’ve never turned up.

I do love my mates. But I feel lonely. I wonder if anyone, any boy, will ever, ever like me. Maybe they won’t and I’ll remain on my own forever.

And I’ll be found clutching my squirrel/hamster slippers dead in bed.

My squirrel/hamster slippers are my only company.

And my Fevver man, and Mr. Sudsy, whose head has fallen off.

If I wrote a story based on me, I bet it would be even more depressing than Jane Eyre—at least Jane had some blind bloke who liked her. I’m going to write a bestselling story about my lonely terrible life in the North.