You open the small cloth bound book, immediately noticing the small, hasty yet organized script. Doodles of various animals, people, and phrases line the margins, leading you to place the diary under the same thoughtless category so many other girls the same age remain in. A close look at the writing, however, reveals a level of intelligence and literary awareness not possessed by the general populous.

Diary of Claire Prideux
December 2, 1940

It's been so long since I've taken up the quill for anything other than the disheartening articles and treatises I've become known for. This diary shall be like visiting old friends I think, the dearest of old friends, for writing is my first love. Ah, but I digress, writing about writing is no fun even for the author.

I found the most beautiful pool not far from Fitzroy's house, fed by some sparkling stream of which I know neither name nor source. At first glance I believed the pool to have some sort of effervescence to it, for a small yet steady stream of bubbles rose to the surface at one spot. Imagine my surprise when, after moving to investigate a man burst from the spot, effectively drenching me and sending my heart racing up to reside in my throat. The man was dressed in the uniform of a German soldier and for a few fleeting moments I saw the events that made up my life pass as if in a newsreel. The soldier merely apologized for splashing me, though, he said he was a deserter, and when he heard me approach he dove beneath the water for fear I was a German officer. Imagine, the Germans so close now! At any rate, he didn't appear to be hostile, and the swastika was torn from his sleeve. I let him follow me to Fitzroy's, though for safety reasons we didn't let the soldier see the tunnel in the basement, such is the times we live in.

Alas, I must cut our time together my dearest friend, Sacha calls and wouldn't want to keep him waiting! [At this point a large heart is scrawled in with the name "Sacha" carefully inscribed in the middle]

Love,
Claire