CORDELIA’S DISMAY

The Journal of Vera Cordelia Altruist

September 12, 1923

I avail myself of these blank pages, for there is nowhere else to turn.

The Will was read today—upon the occasion of my twenty-first birthday. Father’s lawyer, Mr. Everett, summoned me downstairs at half past noon.

As soon as I entered the darkened library, I wanted to flee, to return to the safety of my miniature world. But I forced myself to remain seated while Mr. Everett held forth, in a practiced tone, without regard for my bereavement.

The provisions of the Will are clear. Father put Kreīsfirth in trust, and I am the sole beneficiary.

But only if I agree.

I must never wed nor leave the island. Otherwise, I forfeit it all. 

Try as I might, I am unable to decode his intentions. How could my own father, having never visited me nor permitted me to set foot off the island, impose such stipulations upon me now when I have reached the age of majority?

Such injustice! Such machinations! A Board of Governors put in charge. Twelve bearded men and their male heirs to hold the purse strings, to control my movements, my very being, for the rest of my solitary days.

And what of dear Hector? What of traveling the globe as my parents had done before me?

I raised my voice to Mr. Everett. I even stomped my foot, but he was unperturbed by my so-called “childish protests.” The Last Will and Testament of Augustus B. Altruist was irrevocable, the Trust unbreakable, and that was that.

Afterwards, I wandered the island. I roamed the Fields and circled the Lake, inspecting the Farm, the Labyrinth, the Forest, the Caves, tears streaming down my cheeks all the while. I contemplated climbing the Moontrail Mountains to summon answers to my questions at the source of the icy Cascades before they thundered into the sea below.

Instead, I rode the Carousel, around and around. The Twelve Signs of the Zodiac forecasted conflicting counsel. And the melancholy music echoed my despair.

There was never really a choice to make, and everyone involved knew it.

I cannot exist without Kreisfirth.

The island’s every expanse and crevice . . . the treasures within the Museum of Extraordinary Objects and Museum of Natural Wonders . . . the joys of the Innovation Studio and Theatres . . . the new Library, nearly complete and overflowing with books. Each piece assembled for me—like a puzzle—at the hand of the father I’d trusted, maintained by the staff who parented me in his stead.

Kreis Manor—all of Kreīsfirth—is my home. Now and forever.