Edmund Reads the Journal

The first one he found was almost a fifth of the way through the journal.

Dearest Journal, I have just return-ed from my first year at Grimms, and my mind is full of a great number of fantastic and wonderful things! The teachers are strict, and seem to do their best to keep us from learning anything interesting, but I’ve already learn-ed much, mostly from my new friends. They seem to know much more than I, and, though I am learning quickly, I cannot help but feel they were better prepare-ed for this place than I. I have resolve-ed to do as much studying as possible while I am home. I only hope the Library is as well stock-ed with books on chemestrie as it is with other tomes.

Edmund flipped further into the book, until he found another entry that looked interesting.

Dearest Journal, Is it hubris to not be aware of an honor bestow-ed? I honestly cannot remember when it was that I was first call-ed Patron by my hand-servant. For some reason, now that my dearest is with child, I cannot help but hear the word each time it is spoken, by my servants, my siblings, or my relatives. In some ways it sounds hollow and false to my ears. In others, it becomes more and more fitting. I suppose I must become used to two paternal titles in rapid succession: that of Patron, and that of father. We have decide-ed that if our child is a boy, we shall name him Rotchild, after my great-uncle. Though I am full of hope for a good and wonderful future, I cannot help but fear for my unborn child; there is great pain and suffering in the world, and dark times lie ahead of us all at some point. Though I will feel foolish, and I doubt not but I will attract some stares from my servants, I plan to go and help our gardener pull some of the weeds that have sprung up on the grounds.

And another:

Dearest Journal, I am vex-ed most peculiarly, and overwrought with perturbations. My son is born, this day at seven twenty-three in the morn, healthy and bright pink. Thunder split the sky at the moment of his first breath–fitting, I thought at the time, for a Moulde of great destiny as he no doubt is going to be. His hair is brown, his eyes are bright, and I thought him worthy of thanks to the heavens for his health and happiness. Oh, but then for Doctor Salin! I am not one to shy away from new and unwash-ed practices–as a scientist I am mindful of the ever-marching advance of progress–but this new and amazing science of Phrenology fills me with uncertainty. Doctor Salin has informed me that the skull borne by my son Rotchild has the forehead of a chimney-sweep, and the side-pan of a dentist. He is doom-ed, so says the good doctor, to grow into adulthood forever paranoid, fearing and searching for unseen plots, secret deposits of grime, and hidden cavities. This science is new, and I am loathe to condemn my son for an untest-ed art, but my heart is wary…