I don't quite know where to start. I need to devour Georgiana's diary and work out what I want to do with mine and learn about enchanted light, and I want to do all of those things at once. So I do none of them, and just sit down to think and take things in.

I probably shouldn't read Georgiana's diary now. I know myself well enough to realise that once I start I won't be able to stop. And there's enough of it that I won't be able to get through it at the cost of only one day. No, I'll have to ration my access to it, much though I hate that idea.

With only today and tomorrow before the Day of Gifts, I'll need to focus on enchanted light if I want to get my grandmother's present done in time. But I'm too jittery and impatient right now to stand a chance of ploughing through textbooks or even Edward's mini-essay.

I suppose that leaves my own diary. I fetch a quill, sit down on the sofa and open it to the first page.

Bird's Day, 1040, I record neatly. The Holy Days aren't technically part of either 1040 or 1041, but it's usual to associate them with the just-finished year for the convenience of knowing which time period is being referred to.

Then I stare at the page, not quite knowing what to write next. I've never kept a diary before. I'm not really sure why. It's always felt like something other people do. Like something that's a waste of time when I could be studying. But what my dad said has changed things, somehow.

Is it hopelessly arrogant to keep a diary as the first draft of a future history? Not if you're royalty, or a Blackthorn. I'm neither of those things, but between being best friends with a Blackthorn and whatever the anomaly implies about my future and the fact people already know my name…

It makes me self-conscious, though, the thought of a future historian poring over this in the same way I'll pore over Georgiana's diary when I let myself. I'm not sure I like the idea.

No-one has to see this unless I let them, except once I'm dead. And I'm not sure it'll make much of a difference to my corpse. I should just be honest with the page, treat it as though it was for my private use. Well, except that I won't write anything I wouldn't want Lord Blackthorn to read, because I would not put it past him to break whatever encryption enchantments I figure out.

In the end I do what I've been wanting to all along and echo Georgiana: This book was given to me as a present by my father for my sixteenth birthday, falling on this day. I will use it to record my thoughts and experiences.

Then I stop writing again, because I have a lot of thoughts running through my mind right now and I don't know quite how to turn them into coherent words. Focusing on any one idea is neglecting a dozen others, and I can't bring myself to do that.

I'm echoing a seven-year-old Georgiana Blackthorn, I write finally, because I just saw the first page of her diary. Or at least a copy of it, which was also given to me as a birthday present. By Edward Blackthorn, her distant descendant and my best friend.

It's easily the best present I've ever had. It feels wrong that no-one else can compete with that, because none of my other friends or family have access to anything as precious.

Robin might, I suppose. Her family is just as old as Edward's, though less prestigious, and I'm sure they have plenty of old treasures and priceless books in their vault and library. But she isn't on good terms with her family. And even if she was… I don't know if I can consider her a friend right now.

I don't bother trying to write that down. I do appreciate this diary, though. And I hope I'll appreciate whatever my grandmother has found for me.

But

I cross out that last word. I don't know what sentence it was supposed to be the start of.

They made pancakes for breakfast this morning. Which were delicious. I wish I could have pancakes for breakfast more often.

I scribble a couple more paragraphs about the pancakes and describe the arrival of Edward's parcel. I'm not sure if that helps calm my troubled mind. It helps the parcel and its contents feel a little more real, at least.

And a little more terrifying. I wonder if Edward thought through the consequences of giving me the books before he did it. I imagine his father must have known about it, and Lord Blackthorn would certainly have thought through the consequences. It's just that his concerns were probably strictly of the is this going to give away family secrets kind and not of the is this going to cause Tallulah problems or moral dilemmas kind.

I imagine he wouldn't have let me have the books if he wasn't prepared for them to become public. And I can't imagine Edward objecting too strongly to their publication either. So I could probably make what they contain public.

Which is another thing that would have consequences. Speculation about what has been redacted from them, or what other tomes are lurking in the depths of the Blackthorn library and why they're not being made public. An awful lot of attention on me, and not of the kind I want.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Maybe not just yet, then.

Stars, why does doing the right thing have to be so complicated?

I decide it's time to give up on those thoughts and focus on something more concrete: it's time to try and solve the puzzle of enchanted light. I fetch the textbooks from my grandmother's room, giving her a polite wave as I do so.

Then I retrieve Edward's letter from where it was left and begin to read.

Edward's explanations are surprisingly good. I can tell how much effort he's put into making sure I actually understand what he's talking about and spelling out each step carefully. I feel bad for not reading them in more detail, but it also includes several unnecessary tangents and I'd rather just get the information I need and work out how to put it to use.

It won't be easy, is the impression I get. Most enchanted lights are tied to larger ward networks from which they draw their energy, or used by magicians who can easily power them. It's certainly possible to create an enchanted light that takes its magic from the ambience, but the amount of magic that can be drawn on just isn't enough to make it much brighter than a candle (there's some calculations about efficiency and how well the enchantment is made, which I don't follow in much detail).

It'll certainly be a less practical present if it can't do anything that a candle couldn't. But one my grandmother will appreciate, still, I decide. Also I haven't got any other present ideas. So I'll still go ahead. If I can just work out how…

Edward outlines that process as well, in sufficient detail that by lunchtime I feel like I know how to do it. That's quite different, of course, from actually creating the enchantment. I also haven't thought through what I'm actually going to enchant. From what I can work out, any mundane object can work, but something that I associate with the idea of light or containing it is likely to be more effective.

Apparently I'm still forbidden from helping to make food on my birthday. My dad and grandmother seem to have established a friendly rivalry over the kitchen; I'm not sure exactly why, but it's kind of entertaining to watch them bicker over who's making lunch. My dad wins that battle today and produces a plain salad with some fruit on the side.

You'd think that it would be tradition to eat bird on the Bird's Day, but in fact the opposite is true. It's considered ill fortune, angering birds and thus the stars that make up their constellation, and means that none of the Bird's Day wishes you make can come true.

The Bird's Day service at the temple is at two after noon, so we leave shortly after eating. I'm a little nervous, after what happened during yesterday's service, but that wasn't really caused by the service itself. It was just the reflective mood combined with the feeling like I couldn't leave or show any signs of the turmoil in my mind.

I'll be fine. It won't happen again. I repeat that to myself over and over as we walk to the temple, hoping that I'll eventually make myself believe it.

We find seats in the same part of the temple as yesterday. I'm not sure whether it's the exact same place, but it might well be. I try to distract myself by remembering what Edward wrote about enchanted light. It helps, even though I don't recall what he said very well. I think it's just imagining the sound of his voice. Stars, I miss him.

Only one priest rises to speak this time. I think the title he gives marks him as midway up the monastery's rigid hierarchy. It's only the Ship's Day service that merits three priests, since there is no service for Esteral.

He talks about the power of dreams to change the world – and how, stars' guidance and blessing notwithstanding, we're the ones who have to turn dreams into reality. I listen absently, letting the words wash over me. I vaguely approve of what he's saying, but I'm just not in the right mood for theological speculation. No – I'm stopping myself from speculating, for fear my thoughts could lead me to unwelcome places once more.

But thankfully they don't, not today. The service concludes without incident and we wander home. My grandmother also approves of it, apparently, though she's much more devout than I am. That's probably a good sign.

She presents her gift once we get back: new boots. And nice ones, too: their fabric is dyed a pale blue and their soles look sturdy. "I thought, what's the point in a new dress if you don't have the shoes to match? Well, now you will."

I smile and sit down on the floor to try them on. I'm a little sceptical about their fit – I'm not sure my dad could have told her my shoe size between her finding out today was my birthday and leaving for the market – but they're exactly right for my small feet. I do the laces up loosely and pace back and forth a few steps. Nothing appears to be in pain.

"They're great!" I say. "Thank you!"

I'm still attached to my other boots, but they were becoming a little worn. And part of me likes the colour. It seems like a chance to move away from my usual plain, drab style without being the bold statement that a dress would be. So I find my enthusiasm is genuine. And I'm glad she waited until now to give me the boots, because I would not have been this enthusiastic when I was still in shock after Edward's present.

This is a good moment. The three of us, together, happy. Why can't I just live in moments like this?

Once I've removed the boots – however much I like them, it's a little silly to wear them indoors – it goes back to being the Bird's Day rather than my birthday. This is still better than I've had in a long time, though. We can't very well just not celebrate a Holy Day because I happened to be born on that day.

My dad gives us each one of the paper birds he folded earlier and opens the window. It's a small one, and high enough up that I would barely be able to reach it to throw a paper bird out and my grandmother certainly wouldn't. So we improvise by dragging an armchair to stand beneath it so that we can climb up.

"You can write your wishes on the birds' wings, if you want," says my dad. "But you don't have to. It still works either way."

I'm not sure it works at all. And I still haven't figured out what to wish for.

I don't want to just pretend I'm wishing for something, though. What do normal people wish for? Good health, prosperity, happiness? Then I realise: more moments like just now, with the shoes. Like the pancakes this morning. Just happy carefree moments with people I care about, where I can at least briefly forget about all the things that could go wrong.

I don't write it down. It's enough to hold the idea in my mind as I clamber up onto the chair and let the bird fly out of the window. I don't watch it fall. Part of me is tempted to cast an animation spell so I could see it really fly, but that feels a bit like cheating.

My dad has written something on the wings of his bird. I can't make out the words. I probably could if I wanted to, but I don't want to pry. So I just watch his bird and then my grandmother's fly outside.

My grandmother recites a brief prayer which I listen to without taking in the words. There's some idea connected to my wish lurking somewhere in my mind, even if I can't work out what it is. Maybe it's just knowing that – today, for now – I'm happy. I'm at home.

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