17 October 2026
Saturday. Reginald brought the news this evening, upside down, as he brings everything. The Professor has a room of his own. In Melbourne. With my name nowhere on the door.
I have made enquiries. It is on Collins Street, a very long way east of my crypt, and it opened yesterday. He hands his guests his relics and a letter in which he admits, in writing, that he failed. I have had that sentence copied out and pinned above my coffin.
I am told his catacombs are rated harder than my graveyard. Half a point harder. Half a point! The man has been dead longer than most railways have existed and he is still competing on decimals.
Let me be clear for any guest who reads this: his room and mine are separate establishments. One may visit either without the other, in any order, and they share nothing but a quarrel. I would recommend mine first. I would also recommend mine last.
My beloved, when I told her, did not stir. I believe she is saving her opinion for later.
— D.
