A fire was already burning in the stone fireplace, casting a warm glow.

“If you need anything, press the button by the bed,” Mrs. Gable said.

She looked at Bishop, who had already claimed a spot on the rug by the fire.

“Goodnight, miss,” she added, quickly shutting the door behind her.

I was alone in the room with the dog.

I walked over to the window and looked out.

The rain was still heavy, lashing against the glass pane.

I could see the distant lights of the city below.

I felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage, but the warmth of the fire was comforting.

I took off my wet coat and draped it over a chair.

Bishop watched me, his chin resting on his front paws.

I walked over to a heavy wooden dresser in the corner of the room.

There was a silver hairbrush and a small porcelain tray on top of it.

Beside the tray sat a small, leather-bound book.

I picked up the book, its cover worn and soft from years of handling.

It was a diary or a notebook.