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draper is making up curtains, draperies and valences for me, and they will be installed by the day after tomorrow, or so he has assured me, which will do much to make the place more comfortable during the day. With my chests of native earth in the basement, and my mattress and shoes relined, the house is already quite pleasant. In a week or so, it should all be in order. I think I will go on very well here.
    This part of the city is quite new and was not in place to be burned in the fire of four years ago. Houses are being put up just two blocks away, and occasionally I can hear the hammering, but nothing so loud that it disturbs me. This part of the city attracts newcomers of some means, and there are almost none of the shacks one sees in so many other places. There is a family in the house on my right, four children and a fifth to come. On my left there live two brothers and their sister, who inform me that just ten years ago, the land this whole block is sitting on could have been bought for $16. Now the price for the land alone, not even considering the new buildings on it, would be much higher. There are men charging upward of $1,500 for the rental of a warehouse, rates which are being paid gladly, so great are the profits being realized now.
    This afternoon I interviewed over thirty applicants for my three staff positions, and have chosen a housekeeper-cum-maid who has but recently arrived from Sweden, a woman of middle years named Olga Bjornholm. Her English is passable, and her French is adequate. She tells me she came here to be with her sister and her husband, but that they have disappeared; she wants to work until she finds them, which I have said is satisfactory to me. I have found a man-of-all-work, named Christian van der Groot. He is a strapping fellow who tells a tale of a merchant family bankrupted by the incursions of war. He came here to find gold, but realized that he could do better helping to build houses and guard them than he could panning in the mountain rivers, and so here he is. I have yet to find a cook for the household. I am reluctant to ask Mister Sherman for more assistance, for I sense that his attraction is deepening, which causes him distress. It is apparent when he speaks to me that he does it with confusion springing from his increasing attraction.
    If only my attraction were not deepening as well. It has been so long since I have let myself be loved knowingly; for the last decade I have taken my pleasure, such as it has been, in the dreams of men who have been interested in me. And it suffices me, that gratification, but it is not nourishment. For that, there must be intimacy without fantasy. And I cannot help but long for more, for knowledge and acceptance, though why I believe I should find either from William T. Sherman, I cannot tell, except for what is in his eyes.
    Tomorrow I will have a desk delivered, and I can begin my work in earnest, at last.
     
    Olga Bjornholm’s hair was mouse-colored and done up in a coronet of neat braids as she presented Madelaine with her cloak. “For it is getting cold tonight, I think,” she said. “Tell the coachman to keep the top up.”
    “Yes, thank you, Olga,” said Madelaine, half-pleased and half-annoyed to be fussed over in this way. She went down the steps to the carriage, and waited while the coachman opened the door panel for her and assisted her into his vehicle.
    “It’s the French theatre, isn’t it, Madame?” asked the coachman, knowing the answer already.
    “Yes, Enrique; and the theatre will arrange for a carriage for me to come home. You needn’t wait,” answered Madelaine as she pulled the fur rug across her lap and drew up the hood of her cloak in anticipation of the cool embrace of the fog. She desired as well to conceal all the jewels she wore, for there were brazen gangs of thieves who would not hesitate to attack a lone woman and her coachman if the plucking looked promising enough; the fine necklace of pearls and