March 11th, 1913
The morning fog is rolling over the hills again today, and I find myself sighing. Spring can be so gloomy here, as all things are shrouded in gray. It puts me in a strange mood, to have the sky so darkened at this time of day.
But enough of such nonsense; today, I have several things to attend to, and it is of utmost importance that I do so. Tim Gallaher, the young Irish lad with fiery red hair and a thousand freckles scattered across his pale cheeks, has come down with a cold, which could easily develop into pneumonia in such weather as this. Beyond that, the new professor here, a tall and skinny man with a shock of messy brown locks, is apparently quite prone to accidents. I often find myself crossing paths with him just in time to watch him topple down the stairs, or to trip over his own feet and send a stack of books and ungraded papers flying. Truly, he is a work!
Speaking of the new teacher, the maid who travelled here from his family estate with him is most peculiar. She is dark skinned, yet highly rebellious. And, of course, she speaks with the strangest idiosyncrasies. Now, this is truly nonsense, and I do feel most ashamed. I shall cease this most inappropriate disclosure immediately, and return to the world of fact.
Joan slides the sea-green ribbon between the worn and yellowed parchment of her leather-bound journal, keeping her place thusly. The time she spends in the mornings writing the small thoughts she has after dressing and before heading into the main part of the school is how she organizes her thoughts before the day, and the time in the evenings where she does the same is the only time she allows herself any respite from the day's work.
Speaking of which, Joan finds herself lingering before the fire with her hands outstretched as she passes through the antechamber of her rooms and into the corridors, through which a chilly draft is blowing. Truly, the thinness of the windows at the ends of the halls is completely idiot – that the administration is shocked by the sheer number of colds treated here is a wonder to Matron Joan Redfern. If they wished to decrease the chances of such cases then they really ought to make several improvements on the building to achieve a better heat retention …
Even as she considers such things, she finds a heat rising to her cheeks as a certain professor passes her by. She thinks of how very long it's been since she was asked to dance, and how the Winter Ball is quickly approaching, and how very much she wants Professor John Smith to invite her. Why, though she is not normally one for such frivolities, there really just is some sort of boyish charm about the new arrival.