Hired a coach early to take us out to Bleakhouse on the coast. The wind was relentless, tossing our ample-sized carriage about. The roads did little to settle the coach's suspension, possibly even cracking the carriage chassis from being knocked around in the cold gale. Just at dusk, we arrived at the gate of Bleakhouse, and was greeted by and old footman by the name of Casimir, true-blooded Cornish by the looks of him. Dr Trevelyn apparently knew him and was acknowledged in kind. Mr Trowley fared better with the chap, and inquired that Dr Hawthorne's health had not improved since their last meeting. Under his breath, I understood that Hawthorne was admitted to an asylum, which is where I understand many of our lot tend to go for retirement.

The trip ended at the front door of Bleakhouse, built before the Civil War. We were greeted at the door by Josef Radavan,Steward of the house, who bid us enter. We met the rest of the household staff assembled in the foyer. Joseph's daughter, Elise, the laundress, and Mrs. Pennyworth, the matronly cook.

My compatriots were introduced to Dr Hawethorne and his charming and defiant sister, Lilly. We each passed down the line: myself, modest as ever; Nachten Trevelyn, our Welsh doctor and mentor; his assistant, Mr Thomas Trowley, torrie cynic; French actor extraordinare, Artur LaSalle; the mad German Dr Herr Hauptmann-Artzt Wilhelm Nagelschlager von Kihlunsburn, "Biggles" to the rest of us; and Trevelyn's "ward" Katherine Fairfax, my young partner in knavery.

Before supper, we witnessed the grimoire secreted into a safe, which I am loathe to disclose its location (behind a copy of the Garden of Earthly Delights, aptly put). Artur suddenly declined to attend the dinner invitation for 7:30. I later learned he slipped down to the wine cellar for some unknown reason. It was lucky that he fled dinner. Mrs. Pennyworth served, at Dr Hawthorne's suggestion, shepherd's pie with a weak cider. For any substance, I had to chase it down with a brandy, for the pie was far too spicy, possibly peppered by Hawthorne's Martian spicies he brought back from his last expedition to Mars. The discussion centered around the failed Sheffield expedition. Dr Trevelyn kept dodging the question or somehow sidetracked, oddly enough.

We retired to the lounge for a brandy and a smoke. I picked up the violin and played Vivaldi's Spring. I hadn't played since my governess Miss Stratford, thus I was severely rusty, and it was acknowledged by Kat's disapproving expression. I blame my talent on the pain in my leg.

Moments later, Kat was startled by an apparition in the window: a vagabond in a torn worker's coat lingering at the glass. Trowley, Kat and young Carl Miller the groundskeeper rushed out to find the dodgy villain. It was too dark to track him and Hawthorne has no dogs on the premises. I ventured to the chapel to see if anything had been disturbed there in my drunken state. I don't know what possessed me to do so. The rest of the house erupted into chaos, Artur trying unsuccessfully to distract the staff. Trevelyn made sure the grimoire was finally undisturbed and we retired shortly thereafter with two-hour watches until morning.

From the Journal of Laszlo Camden, Lord Wivenhoe:

Kat, Carl and I journeyed into town early this morning to find the local bronze smith, someone trusted by Dr Hawthorne who could be discreet. I took with me the dimensions of the book first to the bookbinder and commissioned a copy to be made of the grimoire, bound by said bronze smith. I asked Mr Trowley to obtain a copy of the London Times while he was about his errands in town as well. Upon his return later that afternoon, Mr Trowley informed me of his encounter with a German incognito dubbed "Mr Wicker." Oddly enough, he tells Trowley he will meet with him on the morrow and tipped him a mark! Not a bob- a bloody mark! The look on Trowley's face was classic, riddled with sarcasm, remarking how conspicuous yet feigning "Englishness."

Quiet evening with a light supper in our own quarters. Had a dram before sleep.

From the Journal of Laszlo Camden, Lord Wivenhoe:

The enigmatic Mr Wicker arrived shortly after breakfast. He met with Dr Hawthorne, Dr Trevelyn and Dr Wilhelm and offered to purchase the Grimoire for 10,000 pounds! He claimed to be a rare book dealer. The good doctors refused and Mr. Wicker left.

The day passed uneventfully otherwise as Drs Hawthorne and Trevelyn translated the book, working well into the night and next morning in equal shifts. So involved were they that only myself, Mr Trowley, Artur and Kat discussed the matter over tea and biscuits about this obsession the Watchers have over the tome which could drive our world into madness. "Throw it into the sun," said Kat. Dangerous though an endeavor such as that would be to fly it near the sun, I'm inclined to agree with her, should the Watchers' fears be so realized.