The weather has turned; a bitter wind blows out of the north. At night I lie on my cot and listen to it howl. It rattles the windows, finding its way through any crack and gap to chill me to my very core.
Though it is cold, Father Moonwall has not authorized us to light the stoves. I’ve been told by those living here longer than I that it is often not until November before he finally relents and allows the fires to burn through the night. I don’t know how the sister from Ravila can stand it.
The trees, what few can be found, show splashes autumn gold–but not the brilliant hues of home. Here the soot has choked the leaves resulting in a mottled and rusty yellow crown. Yet, despite how meagre the visual display may be, the sibilance produced as those fallen leaves rustle about the cobbled streets comes to my ears as such a merry splash of sound.
I’m afraid I will have to tell my old grandmama that there is no grave in town to mark her brother’s final resting spot. She had thought the church may have erected some sort of monument commemorating the names of the students killed when the cathedral roof collapsed during the Great Fire. It would have been nice to plant flowers beside it on her behalf. He died when she was in her teens.
Nobody at the church or school seems willing to discuss that event. I broached the subject with Brother Lapis over breakfast several weeks ago and he seemed to bristle before telling me to focus on my current studies rather than becoming sidelined by tangents. My last option may be to contact an historian of minor note who I have heard has researched that era in this city’s past.
The hour is nearing midnight. It is time to blow out the candle, pull up my cowl and hope the wind is kind.
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