Excerpt from the Diary of the Lady Grimm, Autumn 1824
After almost a week travelling by carriage from London to Aster Falls, we arrived at Mr Greene’s Willowcreek Cottage just before dusk. I had nearly lost all sense of time by then.
It was a relief—undeniably so—after enduring such a trying journey with our two small children. Byron and I had spoken little of it aloud, yet I know we both hoped that putting distance between ourselves and London might spare us from the aftermath of the ruin his family had forced upon us. Whether it truly will, I cannot yet say.
Despite Mr Greene’s confidence in my healing abilities, I find myself uneasy. I cannot help but wonder what this change will demand of us—or of me. We have never lived beyond the city, not truly, and I did not know what we might find here. Life in a cottage will be very unlike our days at Ashbourne House. That much is certain.
When the carriage finally came to a halt before the cottage’s front gate, a man far beyond his youth approached to greet us, a lantern held carefully in one hand. Byron, ever alert, stepped down at once. I remained inside, the children still asleep in my lap, and listened as the men spoke in low voices I could not quite make out.
After a time, Byron glanced back and motioned for me to step down. As my boots touched the ground, a cool rush of evening air met me, carrying with it a faint herbal scent. I had to breathe in twice before I could steady myself. It was so unlike London—so unlike the damp, fog-laden heat that clings to one’s skin and spirit alike. Here, the air felt clean. Almost startlingly so.
The sky, unobstructed by buildings, appeared vast in a way I was unaccustomed to. The world seemed rawer here—older, perhaps—yet not unkind. There was something in it that felt quietly welcoming, in a manner the cold, watchful streets of London never were.
The man introduced himself as Mr Trent and guided us along a cobbled path towards the cottage. I believe there must have been an herb garden near the front, though the light was already failing; I knew it by scent alone, rosemary and thyme carried gently on the breeze.
With Alain in my arms and Byron carrying Elsie, we climbed the steps to the porch as Mr Trent opened the oak door for us. I lingered near the threshold while the coachman unloaded what remained of our belongings.
Inside, a small fire crackled in the corner of a modest, candlelit room. The warmth reached me at once, and I felt it more keenly than I expected. It seemed—perhaps foolishly—that the cottage itself understood how much we were in need of such comfort, after all we had endured before setting foot in Aster Falls.
The road ahead still feels uncertain, and I would be lying if I claimed otherwise. Yet, seeing the care with which everything had been prepared for our arrival, I allow myself—if only a little—to believe that this place might offer us the chance to begin again.
This piece rewrites the opening scene of the first chapter of my published novel, The Healer of Aster Falls, from Rinne’s perspective. Although the excerpt itself does not appear in the novel, the assignment prompted me to explore how her voice might read if expressed not through third-person narration, but as a personal diary entry—a technique I use selectively in the novel to transition into first person.