I have misplaced a volume of my diary. A good three months of my life is unaccounted for. I am sure it is about the town somewhere, for surely nobody would think to dispose of such a thing, at least, not without asking me. I suppose somebody of a curious nature might have borrowed it to read, but I think it unlikely. Once, I would have been bothered by that idea, but nowadays, I live my life much in the public eye, and there is little about myself that is not known by others. However, for the moment it is gone. No doubt, if it comes to that, I can reconstruct it, from my memory, unreliable though that is, and from my notes at morning meetings. Even if those do not have my personal musings in, they will at least remind me, should I ever get round to reconstructing. A few occasions over the past few months stand out, and those I shall try to recreate as best I can. All I need is time, and that, dear journal, is something I fear I lack. Once again, it seems, I am losing time, gaps in my memory, gaps in my experience, things that happen in the village while I seem to be absent, yet have now memory of being absent. Perhaps it is a result of my frequent contact with Faerie, for time is said to run differently there. I do not know; which is why my journal is even more important. My other, deeper fear is that this is something to do with he who I shall not name, the former Unseelie King. Perhaps it is the influence of that shard of his. Now that is a fear I do not want. I am too old to be afraid of the dark.