[

mood

|

pissed off

]

The Leffoys came back yesterday, without Dory. Florian Leffoy, Charis Leffoy, and someone named Juliana Leffoy who slept with Albrecht von Thorwald--but people will talk to her, and they even let her bring her own bodyguard. Mablin threatens anyone who so much as looks at her sidewise, but she's also got some faerie woman with tattoos all over her face whose entire purpose in life is to follow her everywhere she goes and threaten people. Oh, she says she was in the Resistance the whole time, and maybe she even was. But then they also say she slept with her arithmancy teacher at Ker-Ys, which makes you wonder.

I liked Lady Leffoy, but I wonder if she's forgotten the things she told me, because Dory isn't here at school, and I have to wonder if she's getting any kind of education at all up there or simply folding sheets and pulling weeds and serving Lady Leffoy her tea in the morning.

There's good company in misery these days, though. Dimity chose her friends over me because of the Leffoys and now she has to choose the Leffoys over her friends, because the only person brave enough to stand up to Juliana Leffoy is Colette Saint-Germain (well, and Jeannot, but Juliana Leffoy probably just told him she wouldn't sleep with him). And Gresham's found out who his friends are as well, now that Arianwen's had her fun with him and dropped him cold. Even Vieira turned on him.

I wonder if either one of them will ever speak to me again.

[

mood

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resigned

]

I can't talk to Dory because Vincenti won't let me. I can't talk to Mablin because he won't speak to me even now that the blood feud's off, and I certainly can't talk to Vieira.

Lucy still talks to me--and Gresham, sometimes, and Rachel. But I can't really tell them about any of the things I've been thinking since I talked to Lady Leffoy. I didn't have any idea what she was like. Or her family. I didn't have any idea that people really cared--that Kyteler cared, that Vieira cared, that Rachel cared. I thought Lady Leffoy was The Bourgeoisie Incarnate, and a Decadent Reactionary. I...had no idea that she was pretty enough to be a pin-up girl, or that she had modern ideas, or that she fought in Spain with the partisans.

I made all my decisions based on their lies. Sure, I had choices, just like Vincenti says, but how could I choose when everything I knew was a lie? And I could maybe feel bad for Dashwood, now that everyone knows he used to be a part-time rent boy, and that Lockhart got his hands on him too--except for the way he treats people like me.

Still. I had choices, and it might not be fair, but life isn't fair. I suppose I really have only one choice now. Maybe I'll do it this weekend.

[

mood

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depressed

]

Every time I think the hell that is my life can't get any worse, something proves me wrong. Even the look on that wanker Kiryakov's face after I snogged Lucy isn't going to make up for losing the only person left in the world that was mine. It's not really worth it, is it? Living.

[

mood

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miserable

]

So much for interrogation. Instead of bright lights and beatings, they gave me a drink (spiked, which took me too fucking long to figure out) and let me babble out every bloody thing they wanted to hear. About Mum and Da’s friends. About the Revolution. About every fucking thing, especially Uncle Damien the poncy bastard Lockhart.

About the camera he gave me and that stupid summer I spent mostly at his flat and that damn box of pictures and the shite he tried to pull with me. Every fucking thing. Most of it was shite I never told anyone, including my parents. Who never listen anyway. And now they’re locked away for-fucking-ever and the stupid ponce went and cleared the country because Da warned him.

I have no fucking idea where Dory and I are going to stay next summer. All our relatives are in Outer Mundania and most of them we barely know. We are so, so fucked.

[

mood

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depressed

]

I will say it again: this is not my fault. But… maybe I could have stopped it. If Ramsden’s party hadn’t been raided. I could have squealed and maybe that wouldn’t have kept my parents completely out of trouble, but they might not have been in so much. I could have told the Old War Horse that squealing was their idea. If I’d been able to leave the fucking house. If I hadn’t helped Ramsden throw that fucking party. Shite. Maybe it is sort of my fault. Fuck.

Dory’s here. Usually I hate having her in my room, but today it’s almost reassuring. And it really isn’t Dory’s fault, none of it is. Dory’s just a kid, after all. Da won’t even let her work in the print shop. Not that we’ll probably have the print shop for much longer. Not that we’ll bloody well need it in prison. If the War Bureau doesn’t just decide to use our house for target practice.

It’s probably too late to squeal on that arsehole Lockhart. Not that Da would. They’ve been friends for-fucking-ever and I have no idea why, because us going down in flames for him is what that arsehole would want. And then he’ll just dust himself off and go out his poncy business, Mr Damien “Oops-Did-I-Get-You-Locked-Away-For-Treason” Lockhart, and never bat an eyelash. Da will never see that. And hell, Mum probably won’t either. We’re just fucked. And Dimity’s going to hate me forever.

[

mood

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pissed off

]

I should be setting type for Da and I will be setting type in another five minutes, I just wanted to record this down for posterity:

THIS WAS NOT MY IDEA.

Words cannot express how much I want to warn Dimity about the proofs we ran off this morning for the bloody stupid cover. But I can’t. Because I’m not allowed to use the post or leave the house unescorted.

I am so going to kick the arse of whoever fucked with that phonograph.

[

mood

|

pissed off

]

Da’s in a rotten mood because Lockhart just sent him a note saying to hold off on printing this month’s Tatler, so he can hare off and do a last-minute interview with some bloke. And if this is like every other time Scribbler’s delayed printing, I’ll probably be in the print shop helping out ALL BLOODY SATURDAY just so it’ll make being sent out Monday. And I’m sure all the girls at Vieira’s party are just going to love me showing up with ink under my nails.

Wanker. And you’d think that at least we’d charge him for all the extra work, but no, he’s part of Mum and Da’s cell and they charge the poncey bastard bulk rate even though we never run enough copies to actually make it worth it.

Some bloody alternative news source. It would make better bog roll. I’m sure people use it that way.

I’m thinking of using the Herald for bog roll today, though. Some wanker with a camera took a shot of Kyteler and Dashwood snogging and all I can think of is how if it weren’t for the Old Warhorse kicking my arse I could have made a pretty penny off of my own shots of them.

And I can’t go visit Dimity. I should have never bloody crawled out of bed.

[

mood

|

in love (with the Catwoman)

]

Detective Comics #66!

I have reason to believe I am a Sod Magnet. For they are everywhere I go.

For instance, no sooner do I arrive home from Gresham’s house (having neatly avoided being impressed into attending church with said mate, ‘Melia, and His Lordship) than I am greeted by the sight of Hadrian Kyteler and Dashwood snogging on Mrs Scalara’s back steps. And by snogging I mean that they are practically fucking with their clothes on.

You know, I bet I could photograph them and they’d never even notice.

And it solves the problem of what to get Dimity for Christmas.

[

mood

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bemused

]

So now the whole arcane world knows The Old Warhorse (as Mum calls Magister Kyteler around the house) was providing Mrs Scalara stud-service. This is the Londinium Herald’s fault, not mine. Dimity cannot blame me for it.

It makes a weird sort of sense, though, that one of the few bits of information I haven’t disseminated is public knowledge already. I guess knowledge really does want to be spread around and all that. Which sounds like something Vieira would say.

[

mood

|

curious

]

I should feel guiltier about taking advantage of Gresham’s trust to fuck his mum but I bet he’d do the same thing if he ever got the chance to get laid. (Though Gresham and Mum together is a horrifying concept that I will stop thinking about. Right. Now.)

Dimity and her granny are staying with the Vincentis now. Mum’s been in and out visiting all day. Evidently Mrs Scalara’s patron moved in with her and they were practically having sex all over the house and he started bossing everyone else who lived there around. Oh, and Melina ran off with Marco Malaspina. I was going to make some smart comment about Mablin being heartbroken that his true loves had run off with each other but then I remembered about him and Vieira. (I know, I know, how could I forget? But sometimes I like to pretend that Vieira won’t be sneaking into Mablin’s bed so they can fuck all sod-like every night once school starts.)

I haven’t got a good look at Mrs Scalara’s patron yet because Malaspina’s bitchy sister is staying at their house now and I’m trying to lay low for obvious reasons. But he already has a kid with his wife or whatever. Dory says she met Fia’s big brother, anyway.

I should probably go to see what Dimity’s up to.

So Mablin and Vieira are fucking. This is because Gresham double-crossed me and set the two of them up together and now he is being all sulky cause they are fucking. What did he think they’d do once he’d got them together, hold hands? And he calls me an idiot!

On the other hand, this means I won’t have Mablin’s competition for Lucy any more! Hah. By the end of September she will be mine.