Well. Perhaps this child will be handier than I anticipated. Though equal parts troublesome at the same time, I have no doubt.
We spent the remainder of yesterday huddled in darkness. Fynn continued to cry intermittently throughout the night, though, mercifully, he slept much of the time. I don't know what perils he braved while wandering the jungle alone, but they seem to have exhausted him. Given his normal appetite, I'm surprised he's shown no overt signs of hunger. Even his stomach has been strangely quiet.
After what I estimated to be a two, possibly three hour nap, I awoke this morning and found my eyes lightly dazzled. I thought at first that it was the sun, gleaming through the porthole in Plato's cabin... and then I remembered where I was. A place very, very far from the Dauphine, and seemingly just as far from daylight. So what was pestering my eyes?
Rubbing the sleep away, I looked for the source. It wasn't difficult to find. A ball of glowing energy danced about the foyer, dipping and diving and cavorting in a wild, clumsy dance as it moved from the walls to the bannisters of an old staircase to the edge of a hallway leading deeper into the house. Initially I believed it was moving of its own accord...
... until I noticed that it was hovering above a pudgy finger. Then there were giggles, and, well, that was that. I know magic when I see it.
I skittered close to Fynn when he came to a rest by one of the bannisters. He passed the orb of light from one hand to the other, transfixed by it, trying to touch its edges with his opposite hand and laughing raucously whenever it moved away from his skin. It had - and has, because it hasn't disappeared ever since - a slight, brownish tinge to it, which is new to my experience. I don't know what brown magic might be.
(And really, why did the black child have to have brown powers? That seems so... I don't know... racist.)
I approached Fynn with caution, tittering loudly to announce myself. I don't trust his stampeding feet.
He looked away from the ball briefly, smiled when he caught sight of me, and pointed. "Oooooo."
I nodded. Hopping onto the dilapidated stairs where Fynn had seated myself, I used the banister to climb onto his shoulder experimentally. He didn't seem to mind, and giggled at the touch of my feet on his skin.
Steeling myself, I nudged Fynn's ear. He screamed laughter, nearly pitching me back onto the floor. It took a few more tries before he finally peered around to look at me, happily inquisitive.
I pointed up the stairs. Fynn didn't move. I pointed again, with greater emphasis. Fynn mimed me. I pointed at myself, at Fynn, and at the diary, then upstairs a third time. Fynn mimed me again... but he also collected the diary from off the floor before plodding up the steps, one creaking footfall at a time.
The search begins.
In all this time, we haven't seen a single ghost. We also haven't seen much of great importance. The upstairs is fairly treacherous; many of the floors have been eaten away by time and moisture, and there are large gaps in the roof which we cannot reach. Sunlight stubbornly refuses to enter this building. If there was furniture, it has since been removed or destroyed. The only thing of import we discovered was a raspberry bush, growing through a hole in one of the walls. Thank the gods, too, as I was starving.
The upstairs is a dead end. There are no souls, living or otherwise, up here. Nor do I smell any of my compatriots, not that their scents would linger so long. If they're anywhere, it's probably somewhere below ground.
I don't want to go below ground. Nor, I think, does Fynn. But... we have no choice, now, do we...?
For now, we sleep. Fynn continues to play with the magic he's conjured, which, to my delight, entertains him more than the darkness frightens. I'm amazed he's kept it active for so long without running out of MP. Surely this child is a marvel to behold, even at this young age.
Still...
It makes you wonder what you're dealing with.
Sincerely,
V the Rat
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