In November of 1632, my father became bedridden. Newly wedded to Adelind, I couldn’t help but feel pity for both of them. I could see the love in the kind carresses they shared when they believed no one was looking, but I could also see the pain. There was pain in Adelind’s eyes and hands as she watched her true love die right in front of her. I wanted to help her, but I wasn’t sure how.

Margarete, Cristyne and Elsebeth moved into rooms on the third floor with us, leaving none to be had. I didn’t like the idea of being so close to them, I had grown used to being secluded in my very own wing of the mansion, so I moved down to a room on the second floor. In hindsight, this was probably the first bad move in a chain of bad moves, but all those wrong choices led me to where I am so I can’t say I regret it.

As my father’s condition worsened, I took on more of the house chores. We had a few loyal servants, but it was a large estate and with more people these days, I felt obligated to help. I guess it was destiny.