Strange day of wonders.  I immediately found that I had been up to capers of the most unsavory stripe.  Roxanne Drew (or an ancestor) exists here, as well, and it appears that I had attacked her.  Thinking back, I can’t blame myself.  If I did infect her and she turns, it explains her vampirism and the strange bond I felt toward her.  Seeing her under Julia’s care at Collins Hall, I will admit that the stirrings remain.  These romantic preoccupations are not of my choosing, and I readily admit that they impede my various crusades as regularly as Quentin smashes brandy snifters.

The more pressing concern is that she has escaped only to arrive at Collinwood as I insinuating myself into the family!  She was about to name me as her attacker when her memory fell blessedly short.  I slipped the noose quite deftly today.

Other remarkable events:

The family is not what I thought it was.  Daniel’s line is a crashing disappointment.  Father would be so very relieved that they were from the other branch.  The strange syndrome of, what?  Reincarnation?  Persistent bloodlines?  Occult manipulation?  Call it what you will… that quality which makes one generation resemble another has played its most perverse tricks yet.  jeb Hawkes is now wheeling about Collinwood in a wheelchair powered by pique as Daniel’s son, Gabriel.  (His obscene moustache is matched only by the vulgar brown and vermillion quilt he has draped across his legs.  Somewhere, an ancient, Irish hag is missing both!)  This means that this physical form has been in the Collins line for over a century.  I assume that Sebastian Shaw was the model for Jebez Hakes, then.

The rest are strewn about.  For once, mother is not a joyless matriarch but rather an eccentric author!

Most arresting has been the appearance of one William H. Loomis as her son.  Yes, Willie was somehow the progeny or reincarnation of a Collins, all along.  Does this explain his strange loyalty to us, or is that a matter of the virtuous character revealed as my cane chipped away at his unseemly shell.  I now know him as Desmond Collins, and a fine, sharp man he is.  I hope he stays on my side.  He stared at me longer and more intensely than anyone as I draped myself in the familiar cloak of, “I seem familiar because of my resemblance to the portrait hanging at Collinwood.”

It has yet to fail me… but it almost did.  Would it be an imposition in the timeline to have one painted of Julia to make her travels more credible?  No.

Young Master Loomis: a Collins.  For each horror I encounter, I also perceive the remarkable.



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