June 15th, 1871

The materials are secured. Twenty gallons of refined oil distributed across three locations—ten in my cottage root cellar, six at the old mill ruins east of the manor grounds, four beneath the collapsed boat shed. Should any cache be discovered, the others remain. Powder and fuses wrapped in oilcloth and buried beneath marked stones near the memorial garden.

I saw her ladyship in the village yesterday, posting more letters. Lizette mentioned that Lady Soames has placed advertisements in several London papers and nursing journals. "Seeking refined young woman with medical training for position as nurse-companion in Cambridgeshire household. Excellent references required." The trap is being set for the thirty-first bride. Somewhere, young women are reading these advertisements. One of them will respond. One will be selected. One will accept.

We must be ready before she arrives.

August 3rd, 1871

Summer passes with deceptive calm. To any observer, Hearthorne continues as it always has. Lady Soames tends her gardens. The household staff performs their duties. The memorial stones stand silent by the lake. Jarvis continues to remain ignorant of what is transpiring beneath his nose.

But beneath the surface, everything has changed.

Miss Chalmers reports that the entity's awareness has increased. It senses something is wrong among the brides but cannot pinpoint the source. The seven maintain their performance while planning rebellion. It is like watching someone smile while sharpening a knife behind their back. The creature has grown complacent after twenty-nine years of unbroken pattern. It does not expect resistance from those it has already claimed.

This complacency will kill it.

Lady Soames received numerous responses to her advertisements, according to Lizette. She sorts through them carefully, selecting candidates with specific qualities. Young. Educated. Medical training. Trusting. Someone who will see only opportunity, not danger. Someone like Miss Chalmers was—intelligent, capable, eager to prove herself in her profession.

I know this pattern. I have watched it repeat for four decades. The advertisements. The careful selection. The gradual courtship through correspondence. The eventual invitation. The arrival. The beginning of transformation.

But this time, the pattern will break.

Somewhere, a young woman is writing letters to Lady Soames. She describes her training, her aspirations, her eagerness for meaningful employment. She does not know she is writing her own death sentence. She does not know that the position she seeks is not employment but sacrifice.

Miss Chalmers' latest communication was brief but urgent:

WE MUST STRIKE BEFORE SHE ARRIVES.

NOT ANOTHER.

I have assured her that we will. The attack will occur on December 21st at midnight—one year exactly from her own transformation. If the new bride is scheduled to arrive before then, we adjust our timing. Either way, she will not cross Hearthorne's threshold. She will not walk into her own doom.

We will save her, and she will never know how close she came.

September 28th, 1871

It has happened. Lady Soames has selected her thirty-first bride.

I learned this from Lizette, who overheard her ladyship speaking with Professor Soames during one of her visits to the library. A young nurse, recently graduated from Miss Nightingale's training program in London. Excellent references. Eager for employment. She has accepted the position and will arrive in November, which is expected to be confirmed within the week.

The description pierced my chest more sharply than any heart pain. A Nightingale nurse. Just as Miss Chalmers was. The pattern repeats with cruel precision. Lady Soames chooses the same type of woman again and again—educated, professional, someone whose disappearance will be mourned but not deeply investigated. An unmarried woman with ambition but few close ties. Perfect for transformation into something that serves the deep.

Miss Chalmers' latest communication was barely coherent. Her handwriting is shaky not from inability but from fury. The pencil savage on the dampened paper:

WE STRIKE BEFORE SHE ARRIVES. WHATEVER THE COST.

I sent my response this afternoon via the package at the third stone. I assured her that we would. The plan remains unchanged—unless the new bride's arrival forces us to act sooner. We will save this unknown woman. She will never walk into the water. She will never hear the Call. She will live out her natural life, ignorant of how close she came to our fate.

My chest pained me considerably while writing this entry. I cannot draw a full breath without sharp resistance. Dr. Pemberton's amazement at my continued survival grows with each visit

One would think that knowing one's death is imminent would bring fear or despair. Instead, I feel only determination. Forty years I have placed memorial stones. Forty years I have borne witness. Now, finally, I act.

The young nurse—I will learn her name soon enough—will never know that seven transformed women and one dying man fought to save her life. But she will live. And that is enough.

October 15th, 1871

The arrival date is set. November 15th. One month hence.

The new nurse, Miss Eleanor Ashford, I have learned her name from the correspondence Lizette mentioned, departs London on November 12th by coach. She will arrive at Hearthorne on the afternoon of November 15th, allowing six weeks of preparation before the ritual on December 21st. One year exactly from Miss Chalmers' transformation. The pattern repeats with astronomical precision.

But it will not complete this time.

I have already taken steps to ensure Miss Ashford never arrives. Two weeks past, I forged a letter of dismissal on Lady Soames' stationery—pilfered from her desk during my rounds—and enclosed forty pounds as compensation. Every penny of my life's savings. I posted it from Liverpool myself. By now she will have received it and sought employment elsewhere. If she writes back to Lady Soames expressing confusion or gratitude, I will intercept the reply at the Liverpool post office. Her ladyship will wait on December 15th for a bride who will not come.

We strike before the ritual can proceed. The timing is critical. We cannot act before the scheduled arrival date—if Lady Soames grows suspicious, she might postpone the ritual indefinitely, and we lose our opportunity. But Miss Ashford will not arrive. She is already safe in London, with generous compensation she believes came from a regretful employer.

Miss Chalmers' communications have taken on a quality I can only describe as cold fury. She has spent nearly a full year in the deep, conscious and aware, learning the extent of what was done to her. Learning what the entity is, what it wants, what it has done to thirty women before her. Her anger has not dimmed but crystallized into something hard and purposeful. She no longer writes of escape or hope. She writes of vengeance and endings.

The seven brides are ready. Materials are distributed and documented. Maps are drawn. Timing is confirmed. We need only wait for the right time.

One month. Thirty days. Then everything we have planned will either succeed or fail. Then my forty years of helpless witness will transform into action. Then the pattern that has claimed thirty women will break.

Miss Ashford will live. Whatever it costs us, she will live.