July 15th, 1622

5 p.m. at the time of record-keeping

Check ins are done every night before bed. They are a type of confirmation performed solely by soul nurses. Lying in bed, we close our eyes, touch our own chests and spiritually connect with each other. This web of holy ghosts allows us to detect which daughters need soothing and care and which daughters are doing alright. That emotional state is what we call the Moon. That is where mass is performed if we are away from the convent. It is where I have been for the last six years. It is not a place one goes to; it is a place one feels.

Prince Nikolai is not on the Moon. I already knew that would be the case, since he has not been with us for quite some time now. That, however, is the best way that I know how to make anyone feel loved. If I can get him to rejoin us, I can show him how cherished and important he is. That was my mission today. I was going to work on it after breakfast, already rather convinced that he would not wish to speak to me unless provoked, but that was not the case. He was, once again, the instigator. This is how it went:

“I see that you are still with us.”

“I shall stay for as long as you will have me, Your Highness. If I may be so bold… could I ask why you have dissented?”

“You may not. What is the purpose of religion if one no longer has any faith left in it? A pointless waste of time.”

“Has Daughter Angela failed you?”

“No, you have. You and the other daughters. You believe in nothing.”

“What makes you say so?”

“You claim to be in contact with the Holy Ghost, and yet, it does not speak to you.”

“Your Highness may have misunderstood what this connection entails. We do not speak to one’s holy ghost, we feel it.”

“Do not lie. No holy ghost has never come in contact with you.”

“Of course it has; we commune every night. Surely, Your Highness has not forgotten about check ins. Daughter Angela has blessed you.”

“Be honest. Do you feel everyone’s holy ghosts?”

“I do.”

“No, some are unreachable. You lie.”

“Oh, well, yes. I can only feel the ones that still pray.”

“What of those that cannot?”

“That cannot pray?”

“Yes, beacons of light that cannot pray. What of them?”

“It is as you said, they are unreachable. I can only influence who is on the Moon.”

“Worthless. Her holy ghost lives, yet it does not speak.”

“What are you so desperate to ask it?”

“You may not be so bold, priestess. Eat.”

“Yes… my apologies.”

Despite how personal our conversation was, it did not seem as if we were proclaiming it to the entire room. Actually, as we talked, I had the distinct impression that we were alone. How queer is it that one would find privacy among so many? Everyone’s soliloquies seemed very distant from us. I never thought that a crowded party could be so intimate.

The Father, the Son and Holy Ghost are the three distinct persons that God may be experienced as. Together, they form the Holy Trinity. The Father is the creator of the world and the universe, the Son is Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost is God’s presence in our everyday lives. It is the Holy Ghost that lives inside us, guiding us toward goodness and spiritually empowering us. One’s holy ghost may contact another’s through prayer, and if they are on the Moon, they may also be contacted by nurses during checks.

I do not know why the prince so desperately wishes to speak with the Holy Ghost, or what he has done in the past to try and reach Him, only that the congregation is somehow responsible for his failure. Daughter Angela is the only one free of blame, despite having coached him at the time, or perhaps because of it. When she appointed me for this position, she did not tell me of his past. I assume it is the private quality of it. His life is not hers to share. If we are to connect, however, I must know it. That is why, once breakfast was over, I offered to bless him.

He did not immediately refuse me. His head cocked sideways as he pondered, eyes roaming the room. After all, what did he have to lose? I imagine that exact question crossed his mind before he ultimately accepted. A loose shrug raised his shoulders, putting his indifference in full display.

I am a bit hesitant to jot down exactly what happened next. My hands are still a bit shaky and my writing has become perfectly illegible. I apologize in advance for how difficult it will be to read this, as well as for the content itself. I have put off working on this entry for way too long now.

I invited him into my bedchamber for the ritual. The first thing that he noticed is that I do not have a lady-in-waiting. That should have been the very first sign that being alone with him was a bad idea, but that had not even remotely crossed my mind. I simply told him that I am able to dress myself, so a lady-in-waiting is not needed. Now, of course, I understand that he was alluding to the fact that there was no escort in the room. We were thinking of very different things.

There are several steps to a blessing ritual, which may or may not be performed depending on a vessel’s susceptibility to Queen Anne’s love, which we, daughters of the congregation, call Light. It is warm and all-encompassing, like a hug, hence the name. Her love, her hug, her light. One must drink holy water to keep their holy ghost healthy, and if it is healthy, it may harbor Light. Prayer will attract it.

Since the prince had not had any contact with his own holy ghost in a number of years, I decided to follow all the steps. The vial of holy water that I carry with me is primarily for emergencies, but I thought it would make for a good start, considering it had been blessed over a thousand times. It was stronger than any holy water in Ivory Palace.

The look on his face was strange. I have a difficult time reading him. Yesterday, I thought that he hated me, but that is not true. He accepted the vial with a certain degree of hesitation, skeptical but curious. As he drank from it, I performed a quick cleanse and a simple softening of his soul, that way, the light would have an easier time settling inside him.

He sat down in an armchair and closed his eyes. I did not have to instruct him; he remembers how this goes. Once he was comfortable, I approached him and placed my hands upon his face. The holy water inside him immediately resonated with my touch. I felt him before saying a single word, and very strongly too. My palms burned. I thought that was a good sign, and even now, I am still baffled that, apparently, it was not.

I must attribute our failure to one detail, if anything at all. Normally, the soul nurse will touch a vessel’s face, and as she utters the sacred words, a single teardrop falls, completing the transfer of light into the vessel. Only then does the vessel open their eyes. This time, however, the prince opened his eyes far too prematurely. He looked at me right as the teardrop fell.

I do not know why, but that affected me greatly. No one that I have ever blessed has done that before. The connection between us became so powerful that holy fire burned me from the inside out. Still, I did not stop. I held his gaze as my thumbs wiped my own tear off his scar and finished the ritual. Strangely, once I stepped away, the holy fire promptly went out. Our connection was instantly lost.

This next part is what I have dreaded reliving all day long. It must have been the result of that intense eye contact, the only outlier in the ritual that I had given him. The privacy of my bedchamber must also have boldened his impulses. Once we were done with each other, he felt compelled to get up and ask me… Oh, I cannot write his words down. Sweat pours from my hands. My mind has been stuck on the look that he gave me then, how swiftly the atmosphere had changed. Of course, no man has ever desired me before. It is odd to think that a man would want me at all. I had no reaction to his lewd approach, tongue-tied and poisoned by inappropriate thoughts. He has bewitched me with only a handful of words. I should not have let them affect me so easily. I did not fight at all.

“May I have you?”

That was his question.

When he reached for me, I panicked and pulled away. I have no recollection of how our meeting ended, only that he left with an invitation that I refuse to accept. I knew that it was the Devil that I had spoken to just then. I had never been so thoroughly shaken before. He has made me question the very core of my being. Should I not have liked to find company in him? The answer to that is no, but for a moment, I had forgotten that.

One of the Devil’s greatest tricks is filling one’s mind with doubt, and in that regard, he has prevailed. I certainly forgot my own virtue at that moment. He is also capable of killing one’s holy ghost and taking their soul to Hell with him, but that has not happened to the prince. His holy ghost is still there. While I do not know exactly to what extent he is letting the Devil control him, it is quite apparent that the Devil’s perversions attract him.

I promptly left for the sunroom. After what had happened, I felt that I should rejoin high society and be seen in public away from him.

To my delight, when I reached the garden, I saw a handful of children running about. That was the first time that I had seen any. Their caretakers kindly explained that the little ones are kept in special rooms upstairs, while the bigger ones—that know how to keep quiet indoors—are allowed to stay with their guardians. It seems that most parents are not very interested in raising their own children.

That does not make any sense to me at all. What is the point of breaking up one’s family? A lot of these kids are sent to live with and be raised by older uncles and aunts, sometimes even cousins or family friends. I do not understand it. I do not think I would ever have the heart to part from my children, if I had any.

That does not seem to be a rule at Ivory Palace, but merely the residents’ preferences. Very few do and have done otherwise. The convent gave me the impression that only bad parents abandon their children, after all, we grow up wondering what made us so different, so undeserving of their love. Now, I realize that they probably just wished for some free time. Nobles can drop their kids off with caretakers or wealthy family members and lounge in the sun all day, but the working class does not have the same luxury. Once they drop their kids off at the convent, that is it.

 I am seriously pondering on tearing out that last page and pretending that none of it ever happened. The more I look at my wobbly handwriting, the more ashamed I become, but for some reason, I do not wish to forget. Despite how badly the ritual went, I would like to keep it in mind. I know that is queer. Part of me wants to remember the look that he gave me, the malice in his eyes. I had never experienced anything like it before. He wields temptation with far too much ease. It is a dangerous weapon in his hands.

**

10 p.m. at the time of record-keeping

Funny I should mention that just before seeing him again. He was not any different at dinnertime, watching me with that same burning gaze. This time, however, he spoke not a word. The perceived privacy that I feel at the table is merely that—perceived. In truth, whatever we say, someone hears, and if it is scandalous enough, they shall remember. Repeating the question that he had asked me before would definitely qualify. So, he refrained, thinking it instead. The look on his face made that clear enough, so intense that I could hardly stare back. He has won the game tonight.

Mass is typically held at nine, just before the convent goes to bed. I noticed that, even though I had blessed him, he did not attend. He must not know that we meet on the Moon at this hour. I can, however, feel him… faintly now, a distant specter. He does not need any soothing. I assume that our meeting did not affect him as it did me. That must not have been the first time that he has listened to the Devil. I wonder if it was the first time that he has been rejected. Surely not. I feel that he would have had a much stronger reaction were that the case.

Ever since the ritual, he has had a strange effect on me. While the unease that I feel near him is what I had expected, I had failed to account for how attracted I would be to him. He brings an eerie feeling to my stomach, as if I were about to be sick, and yet, my gaze very pleasantly lingers on the shape of his jaw and the size of his arms. The butchered scar on his face oft terrifies me, but sometimes, very rarely, depending on how I look at it, I start to like it. It seems attractive. Repulsion and temptation are mixed, confusing me. I should not feel this way about him. I fear that, while attempting to bless him, I might have accomplished something else entirely.

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