I don’t even know where Caitlyn keeps her jewelry. I’ve never seen a jewelry box or anything of the sort. There’s not one on the vanity, window seat, or in the closet.

Finally, I set it on the nightstand, next to the medallion, which is where I thought I put it last night. That being done, I step over the stuffed animals and toys that litter the floor as I make my way to the door …

Know what?

Instead of leaving, I turn around, begin picking up the items on the floor, and putting them away. A few minutes later, her room is neat and organized.

I know it’s her mess, and she should be the one to clean it up, but she was looking out for me by giving me the necklace.

It was a really sweet thing to do and I’ll look out for her, too.

June 12th, 1900

The pharmacy has become a perfect balance of anticipation and despair.

On one hand, I’m forced to endure this endless boredom, working behind the counter. The throngs of customers still haven’t arrived. It’s gotten to the point that Father has been forced to make a decision. He had promised Carol that we would never sell alcohol at the pharmacy, but he had to go back on his word. Carol was furious. Father tried to argue that we would only market it as a medicinal remedy and not for recreation. When Carol continued to argue with him about how expensive it would be, he said that we would buy cheaper alcohol and repackage it. I know all of this because their voices easily carried through the curtain that separates the storeroom from the store. They only stopped when a potential customer opened the door, was startled by their voices, and promptly turned and left. Finally, Father said that we didn’t have a choice if the pharmacy was to survive. After that, Carol left without saying a word.

The only joy I get from the pharmacy is the anticipation I feel at the possibility that Mr. Carrin—Thomas will place another order, giving me an excuse to go to the Nightingale House to see him, or that he may drop by the store.

Throughout the day, I constantly watch the window, hoping my wishes will be answered.

Instead, almost every day, I have to see Patricia Fleming and her herd of friends take their lordly stroll across the green. I have to watch as they stop and speak to the nobility of Kingsbrook. I can imagine her put-upon tone and her laughing as she spreads what I’m sure is unfounded gossip about the person she spoke to only moments ago.

Why should someone so horrid be blessed with such a leisurely life while I’m stuck here, in this Hell?