Author's Note: This is set three years after The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog. What if Emerson had never regained his memory? One-shot.

The Last Entry
By Dream Descends

Entry dated May 13th, 1902

Miss Peabody formally resigned this afternoon. I confess this came as a surprise to me, though she has been acting more and more peculiar for the past several months—not pitching in with her usual audacious vigour at the site, or fussing over foolish womanly trifles such as tea time and the supposed importance of dressing for dinner. It will be unfortunate to have her gone, I suppose; she was adequate for several positions I have no immediate replacement for. It is just like a woman to make impetuous decisions and leave you with no obvious alternative in their absence—but I discredit her to suggest that she is as impetuous and foolhardy as other females of her generation. She does not swoon nearly as much as those unfortunate simpletons Vandergelt used to entertain.

Abovementioned American in fact returned yesterday evening after his departure from us several months ago. He and Miss Peabody spoke privately for several hours, which was cursed annoying as Abdullah insisted we wait for them before we ate dinner. He has developed a soft spot for Miss Peabody, I believe, though I cannot imagine why. In the past several years of working with her (I have been told it has been more, but of course I cannot remember), I have only developed a headache.

I seem to be the only one who is not spouting praises for her, it turns out—if I am to understand what Abdullah just burst in to shout at me, it is an attachment (official or otherwise, I know not) to Vandergelt that prompts Miss Peabody to leave. Odd—Abdullah stopped and glared at me in a rather accusatory fashion after he announced this. I cannot imagine why. I am happy for the lady. She has one son from a previous marriage, if I remember correctly; popular psychology dictates that a father's influence is key to a healthy upbringing—or so those who study psychology have told me. Certainly it will do the boy good; the one occasion upon which she brought him (William?) to meet me he seemed a rather pale and sickly sort. He talked a great deal, however.

I do not know for the life of me why I am wasting paper on this ridiculous documentation of Miss Peabody's recent history—I have yet to record today's findings in my excavation journal and I believe I am expected to accompany the blasted woman to the train station (though she is with Vandergelt and the majority of the men are seeing her off as well). In fact, I now know I am expected to—she has just rather rudely swung the door open and inquired (i.e. demanded) to know if I was coming. To my surprise she appeared quite apprehensive and paled considerably when I replied in the affirmative. That is precisely the reason I have not been idiotic enough to encumber myself with a wife—they have no control over their emotions. I hope Vandergelt knows what he is getting himself into; perhaps a friendly lecture before he leaves would not be unwise.

This is my last entry in this journal. I have been, to say the least, spastic in my writing, and I have decided to drop the habit altogether.