Miranda looked down at the diary, only just then realizing that her hands were resting protectively across its cover. "Nothing," she said.

Olivia had been staring at the ceiling, but at that she quirked her head in Miranda's direction. "That can't be true."

"Sadly, it is."

"Why is it sad?"

Miranda blinked. Trust Olivia to ask the most obvious questions- and the ones with the least obvious answers.

"Well," Miranda said, not precisely stalling for time- really, it was more that she was figuring it all out as she went. She moved her hands and looked down at the journal as if the answer might have magically inscribed itself onto the cover. "This all I have. It is what I am."

Olivia looked dubious. "It's a book."

"It's my life."

"Why is it," Olivia opined, "that people call me dramatic?"

"I'm not saying it is my life," Miranda said with a flash of impatience, "just that it contains it. Everything. I have written everything down. Since I was ten."

"Everything?"

Miranda thought about the many days she'd dutifully recorded what she'd eaten and little else. "Everything."

"I could never keep a journal."

"No."

Olivia rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. "You needn't have agreed with me so quickly."

Miranda only smiled.

Olivia flopped back down. "I suppose you are going to write that I have a short attention span."

"I already have."

Silence, then: "Really?"

"I believe I said you bored easily."

"Well," her friend replied, with only the barest moment of reflection, "that much is true."

Miranda looked back down at the writing desk. Her candle was shedding flickers of light on the blotter, and she suddenly felt tired. Tired, but unfortunately, not sleepy.

Weary, perhaps. Restless.

"I'm exhausted," Olivia declared, sliding off the bed. Her maid had left her nightclothes atop the covers, and Miranda respectfully turned her head while Olivia changed into them.