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September 2, 1677

The Dark Tower

My absences from this space have always been easily classifiable:

1. I was drunk.

2. I was in gaol.

3. Some combination of the above.

If these reasons were irresponsible, I took heart in the understanding that my readers would assume that I had once again been overcome with the “exuberance of youth” and that I upon my return I would have an amusing tale to tell.

Such is not the case.

When last I left you, I had informed you of an attachment to a young woman whose expertise with figures almost matched the curvature of her body. Both her brains and beauty both defied logic, and I could say that love in its purest and most cherished form had taken refuge in my heart.

That refuge is now a debtor’s prison.

Rebecca’s (call her Becky or Succubus if you like) first action as my newly wed wife was to remove me (more or less physically) from Jack’s house to a “more affordable” location in Cheapside. Her argument for relocation was that my “malleable nature” had been steadily corrupted by both Jack and Patrick, and that the further away I was from the lot of them, the sooner my “soul” could begin to heal. My compatriots expressed their regret in my leave-taking, but I would hasten to add that two days after my departure, Capt. Araoz was installed in my berth. Her second action was to take away my access to contact you, my gentle reader, and alert you to my whereabouts. In large part due to her discovery of smutty etchings that I store upon this machine, she forbade me access to it and placed it under lock and key. Worse yet, she has hired an inscrutable man-servant who is to follow me at all time and ensure that the following rules (helpfully posted around our hovel) are observed at all times:

1. Sean is not to drink.

2. Sean is not to smoke.

3. Sean is not to write.

4. Sean must attend Church. (and not a Catholic one!)

5. Sean is not to consort with any women.

6. Sean is not allowed to invest or grant money.

7. Sean must be in coat and tie at all times.

8. Above all, Sean is not allowed in the company of Patrick Thrasher or Jack Shepherd.

I write this to you my friends not in the spirit of misery, but as an explanation for what is to come next. For tonight I break free of these shackles. I shall speak sternly with my wife, walk out the door, and by the stroke of midnight be asleep in the stables with Bucephalus after a night of carousing at the Griffin. If you do not hear from me again soon, fear the worst. Or send the Watch to Cheapside.


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