The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 2

by Beth Brower

I was rereading act three from The Tempest, sitting at my desk with a cup of tea, my windows flung open, when I heard The Tenant enter his garret. He walked through the room, opening drawers, fussing—as if looking for a particular item—then the sound of his footsteps led to the west garret. Upon his return, he uttered something that sounded like a curse but which the wall will neither confirm nor deny. Afterward, he sat down at his desk, which is, from what I can deduce, on the exact opposite side of the wall from mine. What a pair of tragic souls are we, scribbling away in our respective garrets. I heard the sound of his chair scrape against the wood, and then something occurred that I wasn’t expecting. Through the two loose boards just to the left of my desk, where the light comes through, came a folded piece of paper. One is not often presented with moments of intrigue. Yet, there it was.