I reached down and picked it up, noticing how soft the leather was. The letters ‘AF’ were embossed in gold on the cover. AF? When I opened the book, I realized quickly it wasn’t a log book. Someone had written inside in blue biro and occasionally black Sharpie, about twenty pages’ worth. It was hasty, scribbled writing, but there were dates, and at a glance I could see this was fairly personal stuff … why would she say that???? … the look on his face … I’m feeling better these days …

I shut the book quickly. It was a diary, clearly, and reading it made me feel unclean. I set the book on the bed beside me and gave it the side-eye, like it was a living object. It was taunting me. I had an itch to read it. I felt I was meant to read it, not in some cosmological, fate-of-the-gods kind of way, but because it most definitely hadn’t been in my room earlier. It didn’t walk in here of its own accord. Someone had obviously put it on the floor, in my room. Why else would they put it here unless I was meant to read it?

I had a little internal battle, and then I spent a while imagining the two voices in my head as Revolutionaries and Royalists with bayonets, in white breeches and tricorn hats, charging across a muddy plain. Once that scene was done with I looked down and jumped to see the diary was still there, red as a heart ripped fresh from someone’s chest. I was certain it was staring at me. The gold letters on the front – AF – must be someone’s initials. But whose? I couldn’t think of anyone’s name that fit. But then with a shudder, I realized. Tom’s wife was called Aurelia. Aurelia Faraday. Was this her diary? I was certain I’d seen the names ‘Gaia’ and ‘Coco’ in there when I flicked through.

I felt sick.

I got up, peered down the corridor, and then closed the door. Then I paced my room. I decided quickly that taking the book to Tom or Maren and telling them I just found it on the floor of my bedroom was not a wise move. Maren already suspected me. She just didn’t know what she suspected me of, but if I went to her and said that someone had popped the diary of Tom’s dead wife in my bedroom she’d never believe me. She’d suspect me of rooting around in Tom’s office and stealing the diary.