There was a victory dinner following the verdict that evening. Hosted by the prosecutor and attended by my father's friends in the government, the meal was lavish and the liquor was quality. Everyone seemed to be filled with relief and made many toasts to my father's memory and his numerous good deeds.

However the fog, the sense of being out of body, didn't dissipate with food and drink. I was still alone. This was not my home any more.

Papers were signed the next day and the prisoners escorted to prison.

Three days later I met with the lawyer in his offices. His bald head shone in the light from the window. He seemed different without his court wig. Promising to write and let him know how I fared, I shook his hand and left to begin my voyage back to my home.

My home. New Babbage.

I don't recall much of the voyage home. Smell of salt water. Saw birds as we approached the shore. As I stepped onto the dock, I took a huge breath of sooty Babbage air. The fog disappeared as if by magic. I am alive. I am home. New Babbage.

Because I was abroad, my role during the trial was minimal. I was present to bear witness of my destroyed family as the sole survivor of the once great Puchkina family. I was the mute witness.

The wigged judges and barristers were stern looking men, full of dates, evidence, and crafted arguments. In contrast, the men accused of the assassination of my father seemed somehow diminished under the legal spotlight. Why had they murdered my father? Was it because of a threatened exposure? Political abstracts of glory?

My loving father was dead. Gone. I felt as though I was out of body, watching from above. I was numb.

The guilty verdict came as no surprise, especially to the defendants. As intellectually satisfying as the trial was, I realized at long last that my father was indeed gone.

My family has been at long last vindicated. My father's murderers will be in prison for the rest of their lives.

It was a cold, lonely victory, nonetheless, as I walked down the stone steps of the courthouse.

 When one thinks about it directly, it's rather amazing how quickly we adapt. I'd settled into my new life in Babbage until it no longer seemed "new." Working at the library, meeting friends, enjoying community life all became routine. 

This changed with the arrival of a letter. An official looking letter made of heavy cream colored paper with my name and address carefully printed in black ink. I broke the seal and withdrew the contents which consisted of a letter and official documents. 

I set aside the documents and sat down to read the letter. After about three readings, my brain finally processed the contents.
The assassins who had murdered my father so long ago had been captured and I was summoned back to the country of my birth as a witness for the prosecution. 

Finally, an end to the story that led that fateful rescue by Sir Tele, becoming his ward, and eventually moving out to New Babbage where I have built a life of my own. 

A trial. I will return to my homeland. 

 Today marks my second year in SL. Why am I still in SL? What do I gain from SL that keeps me returning to my computer? This day provides a good opportunity to reflect.

First of all, let me get this out of the way: I keep details of my real life away from sl not to mislead anyone I meet, but rather to help me stay in character. My real life is just fine, thank you very much. I have a great family and a good life. I am blessed. Sera's personality is my personality; only the specifics are different. 

I enjoy the creativity of SL. I have become a better writer and artist through my involvement here.

I have been freed from professional expectations. No one knows, no one expects, no one demands. That is nice. 

On a less serious level, I enjoy the silly, not for real stuff one can do in SL: jumping off the Eiffel Tower, visiting other lands and times gone by, shooting zombies. I can be anything I want to be and I am not limited by age, time, gender, or even species. I can be a tiny, a flapper, a nomad. I can sit and just talk to people from literally all over the world. We can talk without barriers of race, age, or gender. 

I like imaginative play. I enjoy clothing that fits perfectly. I can click it on and not have to lace up, button up, zip up. My hair is perfect and my skin without blemish. 

SL is playing dress up, playing house, and experiencing danger without harm. 

I have met some amazing people that I would have ever known otherwise. Their talents, experiences, and insights are impressive. They have shown me so much just by being themselves. 

My friends are what keeps me in SL. No one will probably read this entry, and that's fine. But it's you that keeps me here. I wish I could have you over for coffee and a laugh. Thank you.

Happy Rez Day to me. May I have many more in SL.

 A wise man said that New Babbage is a city of immigrants; I've learned the truth of that observation and my story is not unique. I take strange comfort in that.

In New Babbage, I am not the only lone female on the run who landed  bum first, trying to blend in, to hide. Sometimes past terrors find you.

For me, it began with a folded note shoved under my front door. It contained a few words, just enough to let me know I was being watched. I checked my derringer and placed it in my bag. 

Weeks passed. As much as I tried, I could not discover the author of the threatening note. I could not see unusual sorts lurking about or anyone watching my actions. No strange people hiding in alleys.  The shock of losing my family and being attached had blanked out the perpetrator's face, but I naively thought the villain's evil nature would distinguish him to me. 

I took stock of my situation as I waited for something to happen. Good health, confident, streetwise, some skill with weapons, and a strong network of good friends. Interestingly, despite the absence of police in New Babbage, there's little lawlessness. Let me hasten to add that many citizens are armed and the community boasts a fine militia covering land and sea. 

I continued to wait. Why send me a note and not act upon it? I got angry, as recognition dawned that this was another form of victimization. No. No more.

I am not the same person I was when I first walked the streets here. 

In the end, nothing happened. A mere threat? Why? I am left guessing. I do not care. I am alone, yes, but I am confident and my family is now New Babbage. 

Life is not like fiction -- there aren't always neat endings. Sometimes we just don't know. 

 Undeniably, a fact of life. Like death and taxes, church suppers are a given in small towns. Otherwise known as pitchins, potlucks, hot dishes, the basic structure is the same. 

I arrive early before church so I can drop off my contribution in the small kitchen. A group of women are already there to take my blackberry cobbler and place it at the dessert table. There's already an overwhelming array of dishes. I stash my wicker picnic basket in a corner and walk up the stairs to the sanctuary for church. 

As the service ends, we file outside and the men begin setting out the picnic tables. Young girls follow behind, loaded with tablecloths to place on the tables. Those wise in the ways of church suppers stake out the better table locations, laying claim to their spot with silverware and glasses. The foolish ones have to run home for their dish and will have to settle for the least desirable tables, earning the attention of the church hens -- those women who thrive on gossip. 

Since I am an unmarried female, I don't need to worry about where I will eat and head over to my assigned serving location, the ice tea station. There I will stand and pour tea, talk to those who come by, and eat standing during breaks.  It's a warm day and my light cotton dress is soaked. 

There's always an amazing variety of food, and even if one tries to take small samples from each, she will soon have a ridiculous amount heaped on her plate. Some women can be counted on to bring their specialty, which is either good or bad, depending on how skilled they are in the kitchen. Others bring whatever they harvest from their garden or use the dinners as a way to try new recipes. 

It's loud and chaotic on this warm summer day. Families with children, elderly talking, women moving back and forth from the food tables to the kitchen inside the church basement. Children escape as soon as they can to run amid the tables and where the vehicles are parked.  Noise level drops temporarily as everyone eats and become sleepy with too much food. 

As the women clean up and repack their picnic baskets, the men are sent back to their vehicles with the baskets. Dishes are collected, tables moved back off the church lawn, and general cleaning commences. Only the youngest are spared from taking part. We all walk gingerly because our clothing is now tight and we all look forward to a nap at home. 

 I don't know what I did wrong, but I was spotted in St. Louis. Dirty unkempt mustache, slouch hat pulled over his face, he startled me in front of a shopping emporium. I noticed him hours later on the street watching me.  He had the look of one of my father's hired thugs even though I did not immediately recognize his face. Maybe it was just my imagination, but he frightened me enough that I was afraid to return to my room in the hotel, for fear of leading him back to a place he could over power me and return me back to my father in Boston. 

I needed to pack. I quickly patted my skirt pocket with the coach ticket inside. I had to be on that coach. I had to get out of St. Louis.

The public library provided a safe haven for a few hours; that is, until suspicious looks from the librarian drove me out on the library steps. I thought I was safe. I didn't see the man anywhere, until I turned the corner. My arm was grabbed and I was yanked hard.

A low voice whispered, "I found you and you are going to get me that reward." 

I am not as smart as I thought I was, even though I learned so much these past few months. How to hide, to blend in. I am a mouse, a sparrow. I am no longer my father's daughter. I am not his means to a profitable business transaction. I refuse to be sold off like a rug or a lamp in marriage. 

We live in a modern age where men and -- dare I say -- women, have rights. That is, if we can get far enough from Father and his agents.

I failed. His grip on my arm hurt as he lifted me to my tiptoes in his greed for my father's reward. I was too scared to yell. I am not a mouse or sparrow. I am a stupid girl who thought she could escape her father. 

 There once was a young couple, both gifted in their respective fields. The woman, April, was an elementary school teacher and a leader in her district. She led workshops, mentored young teachers, and most importantly, loved and inspired her students.
That's how I met April. 
We worked together on various district projects and workshops. I learned much from April and looked forward to her insights at the numerous meetings so common in academia. I was not in her building, so our paths crossed only for business.

I am the storyteller because I need to give testimony to a woman who has been called to experience the sufferings of Job.

April and her husband Walter tried for many years to have a child, and when they were about to give up, April became pregnant. Their son was named Luke, and he was the most loved child on earth, for he was born against all odds. 

Walter grew seriously ill, eventually needing a double transplant. He was high on the list and his health was delicate, to say the least. 

One shiny Saturday morning, Luke asked if he could accompany his best friend and his friend's mother to the mother's workplace. April was busy with school work and Walter needed to rest, so Luke was allowed to go.

The mother was inside her building and the parking lot was empty. The two twelve year olds had a perfect location to rollerblade. 
The boys were perfectly safe and capable of taking care of themselves.

Hours went by and the friend's mother realized that the two boys had not checked in with her so she went to the parking lot to see what they were up to. They were not there. 

She called, shouted, searched, eventually calling the police. The boys were no where to be found.

A formal search was begun.

Hours passed.

It had rained the night before, filling the  retention ponds by the parking lot but the boys were not in the pond.

The boys' bodies were found, arms wrapped tightly around each other, in a drainage pipe that connected the ponds. It was theorized that one boy had slipped or waded into one of the ponds, not realizing how swift the water was moving. The other boy, it was thought, had tried to save his friend, but no one will ever know for sure. 

I went to the visitation for Luke and joined the line that stretched out of the funeral home and snaked across the parking lot. As the line slowly moved forward, I looked at pictures and pictures of this little boy who was born against all odds, this little boy who was the light of his parents' lives. I saw twelve year old boys, awkward and shocked in their white shirts and father's ties, trying not to cry. I saw my friend comfort her son's friends. I saw her strength.

April eventually returned to teaching but withdrew from all district activities. Her building principal, Laura, was stalwart in protecting April from the media and from outsiders.

Months after Luke's death, David received word that he would have his transplants so the couple moved up to the city where it would take place. Unbelievably, their home was burglarized. 

The surgery was a success and David slowly healed and became healthy once more. 

It is said that even the best marriages have a difficult time surviving traumatic events, such as the loss of a child, and their marriage did not survive. 

April still taught, still loved and inspired her students. 

Years passed. 

She moved in with her building principal Laura and the two found comfort in each other. 

One weekday after meetings with her staff, Laura who was dressed up that day for no apparent reason, drove her car one hour north to one of the state's highest bridges. She got out of her car and jumped.

No warning, no note. Her staff reported that Laura appeared to be in good spirits and gave no indication she was contemplating suicide.

Here my story falters. I do not know why April has been chosen for these experiences. God is good, and I know there is a purpose. 

 What incarnation am I now? Pampered daughter sent abroad for a education, orphan rescued by a gallant mentor who gave her a room in his castle,  or a loner adapting to a new city? I am certainly none of these any more, but not sure how to describe this incarnation. 

At times I barely recall that frightened girl, yet at other times she is close by. Interesting how we change personas, much like we change sweaters. Events that once left me petrified with fright, now don't bother me at all. 

Not sure if this is making sense or even approaching coherence. Allow me to provide an example of an event and how I've changed: Last weekend's Robber Baron Ball. When I was new to Caledon and trying so hard to fit in, the numerous dances seemed like the ideal opportunity to meet people. 

Boy, was I ever wrong. Dressed in my finest, I hugged the wall desperately hoping someone would talk to me. No one ever did. Unsure of social protocols I didn't know if I could ask one of the gentlemen to dance -- there were always a few standing off to the side. Everyone seemed to be best friends with everyone else and I was too shy to barge in. I tried to talk to the ladies beside me but met with little success.

Didn't take me long to stop attending Caledon dances. I still avoid dances in Caledon. 

It's different now. At the Robber Baron Ball, I didn't dance with anyone until the end, but hey, it didn't bother me. I participated in the general chatter, welcomed people as they entered the dance area, and even did a silly dance by myself in a mostly vain attempt to get those without a dance partner to get out on the floor and dance anyway. I cajoled the men to ask one of the ladies to dance. 

What is the difference? New incarnation? Confidence? No, none of those.

The difference in my behavior is due to my friends. I didn't have to be asked to dance to feel confident because I had friends. Pure and simple. Friends. 

 Now where is he? 

I search outside around the grounds. If he's left the estate, who knows where he's gone? Where could he be?  I wrinkle my nose and tease a curl back over my ear. Lifting my skirts, I walk back up the steps and enter the house. 

I honestly do not know where he has gone. Daggone it! Because I have not a clue where he is and I don't wish to climb the steps yet again, I stand in the entry way and listen.

If he is writing, I will hear his papers and chair. Billiards? Easy to hear. Where could he be? 

My breathing slows as I take in the house sounds. Clock, kitchen, kitty, curtain hitting the sill of the open window. As the world slows around me, I can detect yet another noise, something soft and regular. I walk to the left of the foyer and then right. I softly open the door to the drawing room.

He's there, asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace. He's smiling in his sleep as he snores gently.  I walk into the room on tiptoe and try not to laugh with relief. He's still in his work clothes with papers on the couch beside him and a journal in the process of escaping from his opened fingers. 

I oh-so-carefully remove his goggles and retrieve the journal. Grabbing a small throw from another couch, I try to cover him without disturbing his sleep. Success!

I savor the smell of his skin, the sound of his breathing as I slowly leave the room. Peace. 

 At first, there's the sound of birds. Rather, one,
                                                                                          loud,
                                                                                                            persistent bird. 
It brings me awake, but I am not aware that I am awake, all I am conscious of is that bird.
That one bird.
Then other senses join in. The dark smell of brewing coffee. The stillness of the air on my skin.
Reluctantly, I acknowledge that I cannot sleep any longer. 
I open my eyes.


I can lie still and pretend to still be asleep for only so long, but eventually I move. I kick the sheets off, slowly sit up, and push my hair off my face.

I stretch downward and feel the floor with my toes, then my entire feet. I stand. I stumble and yawn. 

No matter how long I have slept, I hate to get up in the morning.

Yep, I really hate it.

Where's my coffee?

She set her cup down and gazed out the open sitting room window. After months of living on her own, Sera was relaxed, bordering on confident. While life abroad as a university student had taught her more than the young ladies finishing school she attended at home, Sera still felt fairly ignorant of practical household management. 

She played with her cup, moving it around. The need for servants. Scratch that. The need for reliable, skilled, loyal servants was an ongoing, worrisome chore Sera felt better at fulfilling. 

A slight breeze ruffled the lace at her collar. Sera smoothed down a loose strand of hair. She sighed.

Cook and Miriam the housekeeper were similar physically, but their personalities sometime created conflict in the small household. The two women tried to keep out of each other's way, but it was inevitable that maidservants, deliveries, oh, even the weather became the spark for yet another war of wills. Someone would cry, another maidservant would give notice, and Sera had to play household diplomat. 

So much to learn, she thought. I am getting better, inch by inch. 

 This is a dangerous topic simply because I risk insulting them either through perceived false flattery or through faint praise. I think we often take our friends for granted, assuming they will always be there. We are shocked and hurt when they leave our lives, especially when we have not told them how much they mean to us. It is for this reason that I dare this entry.

Overall, I find my friends to be loyal, honest, creative, humorous, consistent, tolerant, and equipped with a pretty good bs meter. They possess talents I admire in sl such as writing, scripting, building, strong sense of fashion, weaponry, graphic design, and rp. Frequently, they give me a different perspective on situations, on people. 

They tolerate my moods and my questions. They adhere to the GIRL CODE. Ladies, you know the GIRL CODE. 

I 've not met any of these women in real life, but I would be entirely comfortable sitting with them in my kitchen drinking coffee or out on my deck swilling margaritas. 

I enjoy their companionship, their conversation, and their presence in my sl life. 

Thank you. Each and every single one of you. *big smooch* Now go on! Get out of here!

 The reality of T.G. being closed and Sir Tele away in Fina didn't truly hit me until weeks later.

I was caught up in the rush of servants moving about, boxing up household goods, removing Sir. Tele's art collection. Even out in the stables, the closing continued. Livestock taken away to be sold, horses sorted as to what Sir Tele wanted with him in Fina and other horses traded or given to neighbors. I wandered around the emptying estate. 

Maid servants boxed up my clothing and personal items. My guardian left word that I was to be given enough household items so I could establish my own home.  His needs would be a warrior's needs, well fulfilled in a military garrison.

It was a teacup, a single teacup that caused the awful fact to crash around my shoulders.

I was alone. 

 I was not at home when the unthinkable happened. 

In hindsight, I should have seen the warning signs. It had been a lazy day. Sir Tele was away on one of his numerous journeys abroad so to avoid eating alone, I ate in the kitchen, chattering away with Cook and various servants as they passed through. 

Cook doesn't mind me underfoot. I think it's because she has a soft spot for orphans, no matter their age or station. That's fortunate. It took weeks for Cook to relax around me. If I hadn't been so alone and frightened when I first came to T.S. I don't think I would have spent so much time in the kitchen.

T.S., Sir Tele's home is a large, impressive castle situated on rolling acres of land in the Cay. I was given a room on the third floor, but I preferred to be in the warm kitchen with all the  food smells. I could sit on a battered, slightly uneven stool in the corner and watch everyone or read quietly. The bustle of food preparation, disjointed conversations, and attendant noises did much to heal my wounded soul. 

But I digress. After breakfast I took a book, an apple, and grabbed my warm shawl and lit out for a walk. Hours went by, I know not how, honestly. I walked, read, ate my apple, walked and read some more. The sun was decidedly low on the horizon when I wandered back home.

In front of T.S servants loaded boxes onto three wagons. I could see rolled up carpets, Sir Tele's precious art collection represented by large rectangles wrapped in cloth and tied with rope stacked along on one side of a wagon, boxes and chests, and other household goods. 

Shouts of "Oi!" " Watch yourself, mate," "Take this," "Yes, sir," and similar comments  as servants rushed about.

No one noticed me. I pulled off my shawl and clutched it along with my book to my chest. What ever was going on? I dodged a pair of house servants lugging an ornately decorated chest down the stairs and walked inside. Dropping my shawl and book on a stack of boxes, I looked for Housekeeper, Mrs. McCracken.

"Sir Tele sent orders that we are to shut down the house, send his clothing and personal items to him in Fina, and put the rest in storage at his London townhouse. That's all I know, miss." 

I stood there, stunned. 

"Oh my, my land, I am to give you this," Mrs. McCracken, a kind but unimaginative woman, wrestled a letter out of her pocket. She added helpfully before rushing off, "It's from Sir Tele, miss." 

I recognized Sir Tele's handwriting on the envelope. I opened it and sat down on the steps to the gallery. His tone was happy as he described his promotion and decision to shut down T.S. and move to Fina. I would be fine and he said he'd sent instructions for me to be given furniture and other items to set up my own home. He would continue to provide for me financially and continue to be my guardian. 

My own home? Alone? How could I survive?
 

 It was cold the day I first flew like a bird.

So many things a lady cannot do, my mother frequently reminded me.

"A lady," she intoned, "does not raise her voice."   The list continued: a lady may not drink port, go about without an escort or chaperone, be flashy or vulgar, and on went her list of proper comportment.  It seems my childhood was shaped by "can nots" and "must nots."

My parents loved me, I know. They wanted me to succeed in society. To be honest, I was never much of a rebel, at least when I was a child. As I grew older, years of sitting straight and later wearing corsets confined my actions to what was polite.

Time and circumstance have a way of changing one's idea of proper and caring what polite society thinks. 

I was on my way to pick up a few notions when I noticed a different sort of establishment. A flash of sunlight on chrome caught my attention. "Bicycles for sale, " read one sign. Walking closer, I saw another: "Ladies' bicycles."  Everyone certainly has seen velocipedes, but those are not for young ladies. What I saw that cold day was another sort of a bicycle as I peered into the store window. The bar from steering apparatus to seat was lower, to accommodate a woman's skirts.

The shop bell tinkled. "Would you like to try one, miss?" inquired the shopkeeper, a thin gentleman with jet black hair and matching mustache.

Don't know what possessed me, but I said yes. Soon all ideas of purchasing sewing supplies were forgotten as I settled upon the wonder of wonders, a ladies' bicycle.

I didn't have to worry about my long wool skirts and confining corset. Those certainly did not affect me sailing, no, flying down the city streets.  

How exhilarating! I flew! I went fast, like a bird! 

What other new adventures await me?

 There is value in solitude. It's allowed me space to grieve my dear parents and brother. It's allowed me time to study as I pursue my education. As time passes, I have gained a greater appreciation for my solitary state.  Modern women are married or engaged by my age.

I am not. 

A few years ago, I did not realize why my parents were insistent on me going abroad for my education. One late afternoon, I happened by the parlor where my parents were engaged in a quiet discussion. "Who will marry an woman who has been to a university?" my mother asked.

"If she marries, it will be her decision, not society's," replied my father, ever the politician. "She must learn to speak English. She must learn philosophy and politicial science. She is gifted in science and math. To marry her off now would wither her soul."

I stopped to listen.

"Will she be accepted at an English university? Will the other women scholars accept an upper class foreigner in their midst?"

"I do not know the answers to your questions, dear," my father sighed. "Her brother Eduard will make sure she has a place in his household, should she return to her homeland."

My mother, interestingly, was the one who originated the idea of me leaving to study abroad, despite her very real concerns. She knew me best, knew that I came alive when pouring over books in the library. Knew that I constantly asked questions of everyone. 

Did my parents do me a favor by sending me away? At the time I only knew that I had escaped betrothal to the son of another politically connected family in the city who had initiated marriage negotiations for my hand. The boy was older, average looking, nice enough, I guess. I was not interested in marriage for the sake of a political alliance. My stars! This is the nineteenth century, not some barbaric age when women were bargaining chips. 

My parents fell in love and then married. While not unknown, this was certainly not the norm in our city and in our social circle. Maybe that is what they wanted for me and for my brother. I do not know. Conventional in most regards, my family did defy the norms upon occasion.

Did my parents make my life better or worse? 

While I have grown used to this life of solitude, I wonder what my life would have been like, had I married that boy. Judging from my friends' marriages, I would have a large house, staff, beautiful dresses, social acceptance and power. My husband's reputation would be mine. But would I love him? I have seen joyful alliances of man and woman, but then I have also witnessed sorrow, bitterness, and worst, indifference.

I value my freedom. 

 I am spending more and more of my time in Babbage, wandering its streets and talking to people. Caledon was my first home and my first love. Some of my closest friends are from Caledon. But Babbage, ah, has captured my heart.

As I have gotten to know the community that is New Babbage, I am struck by the personalities here. There's Victoria, a mature woman who divorced her husband after years of incompatibility. Staying together for the children is a nice idea, but lonely in practice. She is so stylish and friendly. Another female I have met is Sonya from somewhere in Central Europe. She's an excellent listener, one you end up telling more to than you had intended. If you go to her with a problem, she will fix it. The depth of her knowledge is amazing.

Piper, with her sleek black hair and green eyes, does not know a stranger. Open, friendly, talkative, she knows everything about everybody. Watch what you say to her, for it will be repeated over the town. Will is an amazing musician who writes and performs his own songs. Sings on street corners, Will finds nothing better than to play his fiddle and entertain friends. Without his music, Will is funny and self effacing. 

These are just some of the people who call Babbage home. I've not mentioned the various artists, business owners, shady characters, professionals, and everyday normal souls. Most are friendly. Most will return a hello and invite you to join their conversation. 

 Life in Babbage is rather different from anything I've experienced before. Streets are dark and the canal waters look cold. Closed, forbidding looking buildings. The shop windows are brightly lit and the merchandise attractive, but who has money? If I purchased all the pretties, where would I put them? I only have a small room in TG. I dare not place any of my belongings outside of my room for fear of displeasing my guardian.

Despite the bleak atmosphere, New Babbage is a warm and welcoming place, for those who know to avoid dark alleyways and to keep their wits about them. I am fortunate that even in my early days in Babbage, that I did not experience any calamity. People of all walks, all stations, meet to talk. It's not uncommon for a crowd of various souls to gather around a fire or in a store and just talk.

Strangers are most welcomed here. We are all a bit strange here, in one way or another. If one is polite, one will quickly make friends and be taken in.  

As I walk around the seemingly deserted grounds at Winterfell, I can't help but look back on the events of my life. Those first few weeks after Sir Tele saved me are a blank. I am told I witnessed my brother's murder, but that event is mercifully gone from my memory. Shock? Grief?

My first memories in Sir Tele's home are hearing a maidservant carefully picking her way around the room clearing the dust and adding fresh flowers around the room. Don't know what woke me exactly, perhaps a flick of her cleaning cloth or a creaking floorboard. I sat up suddenly, took a deep breath, and then fell back onto my pillows as memories of my family, my university life came thudding into my head.

I heard, rather than saw, people enter my room. 

"Now, now, dear," an older woman supported my head and put a glass of water to my lips. "You are safe here." I closed my eyes gratefully and slipped back into darkness.

Hours? Days? passed. After a time I was able to sit and then walk unaided. I held my memories at bay while I explored my new home. My guardian was frequently absent, a traveler to foreign lands so while I waited for the rare opportunities to talk with him, I slowly resumed my studies and talked with the house staff.

I roamed the castle until I knew every detail of the walls, the medieval paintings, which stair steps creaked, and what time of day was best to view the sea from the upper floors. The dungeon caught my attention for awhile even as it was damp and somewhat moldy. I imagined prisoners locked in the cage, which now stored racks of wine. 

Every day the weather was good, I ventured outside. My father insisted that my brother and I take daily walks to "improve our constitution." We could not use the carriage unless the weather was cold or rainy. Funny what childhood habits stick with you. I walk.

After a time, I grew restless and explored further and further from my new home. I would not return home until I grew hungry. Shoes muddy along with the hem of my skirt, I received disapproving looks from the housekeeper, Mrs. Tavers,  so I soon learned to enter by the servants' entrance where I could escape Mrs. Tavers' notice. 

On darker days, I sat on the creek bank by the castle bridge, staring at the cattails. I was lonely. I mourned for my family. I mourned for my old life. I craved friends. 

Eventually I discovered a city, a dark, mysterious city called Babbage. That discovery issued a new chapter in my life.