10th October, 1891

Ivy,

I dreamt last night of the games we played as children—more juvenile versions of those you would later join us for. You were, however, present, as were we all in our current forms: [Thomasin] spectral, my brother with ink upon his fingers, et cetera. Orwell, too, though he remained silent. Indeed, all went silent when it became his turn to speak, even the wind in the grass and the birds overhead.

Not since [Thomasin]'s passing have I dreamt of that place. Though at its worst my dream might be described as 'eerie', I cannot shake this feeling of dread with which I have awakened. I can only hope that tonight brings sweeter dreams—or, better still, oblivion.