14 October 2020
Wednesday. I have been shown my new crypt, and I must record, with as much dignity as I can gather, that it is upstairs. In all my centuries I have never once been buried upstairs.
The people who made it do everything themselves, I am told. They draw the thing, they carve the thing, they paint moss onto the thing, all in a workshop of their own. I asked to meet the stonemason. A young woman with paint on her elbows told me the stone was not stone. I have chosen not to understand.
Still, it is handsome. Carved doors, candles guttering on the sarcophagi, lanterns hung where a lantern ought to hang, and a coffin whose lid bears the marks of something that wanted very badly to get out. Not me. I have always used a lid like a gentleman.
The building is on Lake Street in Northbridge, and it is old enough to have manners. Below it the city eats and dances until very late. I approve of a neighbourhood that keeps my hours.
My beloved will lie in the finest casket in the room. I have told her so. She did not reply. She has not replied for some centuries, but I remain optimistic.
— D.
