It took Hermione to tell me why I was ill. I had no idea that if I was expecting a child, I would throw up every morning, feel terrible all day, and lose weight until my hands look skeletal and my hair breaks off. How can making a baby be such a terrible toil? Hermione assures me it’s not so for every woman. She’s only twenty-two, but she has younger brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, so she does know. She tells me soon I’ll be fine, but I can see every day she grows more worried. When Mother realized what was wrong, she fled for most of a week. Then she crept back, cowering, as if Father would miraculously appear and punish her. Now she comes up every day and holds my hand and strokes my hair. I’m going to have a baby, and it’s no coincidence that nothing feels so good as my own mother’s touch on my forehead.

It’s been three weeks since Patrick’s last letter. I know I shouldn’t be impatient, for I found a story by him in the Atlantic Monthly, and his ship has sailed from Hawaii. He may write me, but how can he mail the letters? He can’t, of course. Nor can my letters reach him. I wish I could tell him about the baby, but that would be cruel, for him to realize that the beautiful moments we shared has resulted in so much illness and trouble for me.

Should I think like that? No! It’s a baby! Patrick’s child. But I feel so desperately ill, I can’t drink even water and I have no tears to cry.

If only I could take a bath, but although Hermione dragged a small tub up the secret passage, I can’t sit up long enough. I really think I will die. I, or the child, or both of us.

Dear diary, you will not believe the good news! The child is moving in my belly. Kicking at me as if demanding release. I can see a small bump. Despite my constant sickness, the baby is growing, and I am happy. Perhaps we’ll live through this, baby and me.