Date discovered and confirmed to be the 27th of March, 1907.

I haven’t been working much. I haven’t had much work. For some reason, Doctor Lemonthistle has been absent since yesterday. Not that it’s strange. He never stays on institute grounds during the Season, when court is in full swing. Too much tension and too little space.

I accept the fact that he is likely off galivanting the countryside in search of footprints and skeletons and fossilized anything, all to support his thesis.

I wouldn’t know much about it, given my schooling from him focuses solely on chemistry, not biology. And my dear friends happen to be a literary scholar-to-be and a lovely, if slightly too macabre, dragonologist in training.

Anyhow, I had clear instructions and all the time in the world. And, now, I have the time, but not a single direction. That is odd. Normally, the doctor is on top of things like this. But knowing him, in his rush to be as far away from this place as possible, he was simply lax in his planning. It happens to even the best of us.

Truly, this is the only thing I can do. That and stew over the rumors about the crown prince, however little good it does me.

It makes me wonder about the political standing of the palace – just how tumultuous and disruptive has Setra’s behavior been that there are rumors of a spectacle of courting?

To be frank, it makes me more anxious than I would care to admit. It’s not that I want to marry the man, for gods’ sake, it just seems like a tense, desperate bid for some peace and quiet. Perhaps a little lessening of international tensions too.

I don’t believe them, but if they are true, it stands to reason that Setra Calth will not be wed so soon. It’ll be out of spite, of course. Everything that man does seems to be in silent rebellion against his family. The drinking, the dances, the scenes the tabloids have gotten wind of – not to mention the political cartoons depicting him as a riotous, drunken lecher.

They may not be too far off, but it's all speculation. That’s all gossip can be, really.

My candles are burning too low to see properly. It seems I must abandon ship, until morning. Or until I get better candles. Perhaps the delicate beeswax or the new paraffin kind the nobles love so much.

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28th of March, 1907

My poor candles are burnt down to stubs, little puddles of tallow.

It seems I will need new ones, which is a shame. I can’t afford much more than the tallow ones normally. A candle of paraffin would last me significantly longer, but it is not yet the cheapest type of candle. Perhaps, with the rapidity of industrialization, they may become commonplace.

I’ll have to ask Rad and Tasl if they’ll indulge me in heading to Plyer Street for new ones – and perhaps some other indulgences along the way.

Maybe things I’m not in need of, per se, but trinkets or objects to, one day, place in a curio cabinet.

I never have been able to help myself, not when it comes to things that seem useless, if only really around for decoration.

Perhaps it is because I feel some twisted kinship with those treasures, considered to only be pretty, rather than functional. Perhaps I just like shiny things. I still can’t quite tell.

However I lean, I can’t quite shake the grip of shiny objects on my frail corvid’s heart. Perhaps mother’s crest would’ve been better suited for that of a jay or a grackle or a raven, rather than a starling.

We all seem rather kindred with birds that scavenge, collect and hoard. Well, I’ve heard mother was. I can’t say the same for uncle, not when his interests lie not in collecting, but in preservation. You’d think a historian might be more excited to touch, see, hear, or smell some historical artifact or object — even foods, on occasion. He seems rather dispassionate towards antiques. Likely because they are not pristine.

He would dislike my habits of scrounging for any little treasure, the more lived in, more used, and more loved the better. I have been told that to be loved is to be changed.

I like to see that physical love and life in an object, however simple – not place it under a microscope or behind glass.

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But, enough about my own attachment to birds – back to the Calths and their issues – their many, many issues. Issues spanning longer than my lifespan.

They are the reason I lack parents, after all. It makes understanding their crown prince especially difficult, because of the actions of his father, and his father before him. Will he, the supposed wild, feral prince, be the same as his ancestors?

Only time – and perhaps, the scandal sheets and rumor mill – will tell. It is no wonder they sent him to boarding school at the earliest convenience. Doing that, however, made a long-standing issue worse. Kergazin’s darling, golden boy discovered quite a few vices before his homecoming in January. Least of which, his penchant for long, loud, drunken nights.

Perhaps the king and queen hope finding a suitable partner for their raccoon of a son will mellow him out. It seems unlikely. His royal highness is hardly someone mellow, let alone someone the public has been shown to be obedient or inclined to settle.

Maybe they’ll get lucky. Maybe they’ll find the girl whose family has all the right ties and a substantial dowry to support the prince’s – supposed – dependence on the drink. Maybe the royal coffers won’t be drained to pay for partying when he ascends the throne.

Maybe.

But, maybe is a weighty, if finicky, word. It’s full of promise, but it is never a guarantee. And nothing has ever been guaranteed with the Calth visage on coins.

The only thing they’ve guaranteed their ravenous public is plenty to whisper about behinds hands or under fans.