The · Private · Journals · of · Dr. · Helen · Magnus

Good day's work in the lab. I finally finished updating the correlation databases so my cross referencing comes much more quickly. God bless technology. I don't know how we managed as much progress as we did when all records were kept on paper. I admire my father's accomplishments more with each passing decade. Still, I find pen and ink much more satisfying when it comes to laying down my personal thoughts in these journals. There's something organic and fulfilling in the act. And I do enjoy the quiet and soft light, away from the hum of electronics, to sort my thoughts in the twilight place one draws into before sleep.

The weather was chilly again today. I keep forgetting to ask that the winter afghans be brought down and aired for the season. Must leave myself a note somewhere. Seems there's been little time for anything but work, of late.

Dr. Zimmerman said something this afternoon that made me laugh. Really laugh. And not at the absurdity or the irony of his statement, but simply because his comment was funny and was meant to be so. In my moment of simple amusement, I realized how long it has been since I have laughed for the pure joy of it. Ashley and I used to laugh. We used to be just...silly together. But such things were some time ago. Our times have changed and the ground we tread has grown more jagged. The humour has somehow slipped through our fingers when our gazes were turned away. I did not realize how much I miss the laughter. I should thank Dr. Zimmerman for this small gift, but such acknowledgements have never come easily to me.

Would anyone believe that all of this began...all of this...because Montague John Druitt made me smile? Made me laugh. At the end of a horrid day at the hospital, in the endless London rain, my dress splashed with mud from a passing carriage. He made me laugh. And giggle, his soft eyes warm and gentle in the cruel cold and damp. Helen Magnus, laughing in the rain and marveling at the beauty of the world. Dear God, was that really me, really us...all those years ago? When did we sink into this blackness, these shadows? When did we begin our life below the streets? Lose sight of the warmth in the darkness? I know exactly when. The blood spreading through the rainwater swims behind my eyes, awake or asleep. But I will not think of these things tonight. We have new guests who require my attention.

Just back from the UK. I swear, the flight gets longer every time. Part of me misses travelling by sea. I miss the fresh air. And the block of time when one is detached from one's customary responsibilities. The duration of the journey can leave one free to think, write, create, invent, contemplate. To remember things oft forgotten in the demands of everyday survival.

Medically, my health is still sound. I appear in numbers and scans to be a 40-year-old-woman. But I do find I tire more quickly than I did a century ago. I supposed this is to be expected (no matter what magic bath products I use, eh?). Time zone shifts leave me weary. I shall turn in early, tonight.

I should speak with Ashley.

I know...I... I've spent twenty years planning what to say. And now.... Dammit...

It's here, he's here, and I can't get the words to pass across my lips. She's so priceless. The idea of losing all she's accomplished, of losing...her...

But I am tired. I shouldn't contemplate such things without a proper night's rest. And much work awaits when I wake.

Good night, for now.