City of Lost Dreams

From the private diary of Elizabeth Weston Notes for the conclusion of my story DAY 6,868

The road has been long. Very long. I have made mistakes. Harriet has not been the finest of necromancers. Her mind is marred by the drug.

St. Vitus is not the best portal. It has been corrupted.

The Charles Bridge portal isn’t perfect, either. Too weak. Or maybe it was Harriet who was too weak. She overshot wildly. John of Nepomuk came out in the Vltava. He didn’t last long, fortunately.

Then the incident at SS. Cyril and Methodius Cathedral. Too much pain there. And again, Harriet failed.

Harriet is quiet now. She was very upset that the little Lobkowicz princeling caught her spying. One would almost believe she had feelings for him. But she got just enough information to be helpful. First, when under the influence of the drug she saw Sarah Weston (no relation, since, as you know, dear reader, I have no descendants) open the portal in St. Vitus with a key. Apparently this happened a while back. That was very interesting to me, though Harriet could provide very few details. And second, she reported that there is a map of the Star Summer Palace in the Lobkowicz library. This confirmed my suspicions.

And so I have decided to give young Harriet the ultimate gift. She has graciously agreed, although possibly she does not quite understand as to what. I have given her a full dose, and I believe she is currently watching the Swedes loot Prague in 1648. Perhaps she will see me being raped. If she does, she may stop wondering why I became so cruel, how I could hurt so many people along the way in order to learn what I needed to know. Why my ambition is not tempered with compassion.

But no more mistakes.

If you want to make sure something is done correctly, you must do it yourself.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, again.

A stitch in time saves nine.

Twinkle, twinkle little star.

Life is but a dream!

Truly, this is the Golden Age.

I am the Redeemer of the Alchemists. I am the Alchemist’s Revenge.

I do not need Harriet.

I have found another.

I have sent the message to Max, and soon all the players will assemble to play my tune.

This is the greatest age of them all. I do not even need to hide so often. I am no longer the only woman who appears to be frozen at thirty years old! I can look thirty for decades. O brave new world, indeed.

And now I know where it is to be done.

I should have known.

I should have remembered.

But four hundred years is a long time.

I have known so many over the centuries—the wise, the illustrious, the terrible. The unkind. The merciless. The diseased. Much harm could be done, you know.

But what I do next, I do for love.