There was so much more you might have written: Eyes have not reverted to lilac since the River. Arm is continued weak point. Still cries at night. Cannot actually be anaemic considering diet primarily red meat and apples. Regularly undersleeps. Begrudges my relationship with Teacher. Knows too much.

Your other sections were more substantial:

AUGUSTINE (WHILOM QUINQUE) THE FIRST, SAINT OF PATIENCE (WHY?)

The name had been easy to get. You had simply found him at his midafternoon cup of tea and cigarette—the Saint of Patience was as regular as a worm, and had no apparent fear of fire, or having to regrow his own taste buds—and asked him outright.

“Ah! Finally, my biographer,” he had said, rubbing his hands together in a show of deep satisfaction. “I’ve been waiting for this, Harrowhark. A, U, G, U, S, T, I, N, E, Augustine; height six feet; visage can be described as attractive but grave; eyes can be cinereous; and if you’re appreciative of poor little Cyth’s tradition—” She was always poor little Cyth, while he smiled, and looked directly at you.”It’s Augustine Alfred. Alfred was five foot ten—let’s get that down for posterity. He was my other half—get that down too, for the human-interest aspect.”

You were momentarily revolted by the apparent Fifth House tradition. “You and your cavalier were—wedded?”

He did not turn a hair at wedded, or, as Ianthe would, say back exactly what you had in a high-pitched voice, for which you would one day jerk her white and beating heart from her colourless ribcage and eat it dripping before her. You did not examine eat it dripping as you maybe should have done. He just laughed in the uproarious, slap-your-thigh way that the Saint of Patience always laughed. It was not a laugh that really ever seemed to find anything genuinely funny. When this peal of performative humour had died down, Augustine said, “Bless you, sis! He was my brother.”

Killed own sibling.

Augustine the First was the closest thing you had ever experienced to human plex. On the outside, he was perfectly painted, in a sort of antique Fifth House style: all manners and politesse and over-easy familiarity. Yet there was nothing inside him but an equally easy contempt. It was as though ten thousand years had built up a shell and left a space at the centre. Nothing seemed to touch Augustine. He was effervescent and charming in a way you found a little tedious and flip, especially on those teeth-grinding occasions when God called you all to eat a social meal together. But there was never any real emotion, or reaction, or opinion—his mouth said one thing, and his face could contort itself into any number of silly expressions, but those eyes were devoid of substance. Cinereous was at least correct: ash also looked solid upon first glance, but was insubstantial filth on contact.

Poor relationship with Mercymorn.