All right, then. Where did we leave off? Oh yes, a nice hot bath:
Next morning she made another attempt with the well,
and while she didn’t get another bad result, all she got was a bonus, which didn’t move her performance bar back up one bit.
A selfie to commemorate the disappointment. I really feel for my poor girl. Sure, she’s obnoxious, but she’s worked very hard to get where she is, and she doesn’t deserve these repeated gut-punches from the fates.
We occupied our time by rearranging the plants in front of the museum.
Caleb attempted to understand knock knock jokes.
Tatiana won a game tournament, then hopped back into the bath to get in the right mood for her babysitting shift that evening.
And topped up her energy with a little vampiric meditation. You can see Jana’s been at the bar. Ever since she maxed the pipe organ skill she’s been a bit at loose ends.
Not to make a dig at Felix’s expense, Eve dear, but it does cheer one up to know that one still has friends at one’s darkest hour.
At midnight, my poor little ruffian returned home. She wasn’t fired, thank heavens, but of course wasn’t promoted, either. She sulked off to her coffin in disgrace. I’ve no doubt she could have maxed video gaming by morning, but she was too morose to try, and I don’t blame her.
Here’s her museum collection, barring any really exceptional finds in terms of posters next week. Everything, literally everything, is complete for Tatiana and I except half a tick in video gaming and her part-time job.
It would have been a heartbreaking way to end the week even if Jana hadn’t bested me in a sparring match. She’s two full ranks below me and yet I still can’t whip my own progeny in a fight. Ugh! It’s enough to make me want to imitate my daughter’s pout and take a selfie.
So, I’m sorry for the, “Woe is me!” tone of this letter. It’s just such a disappointment, and I don’t know how we’ll get ourselves out of this situation. We’ve got the money to keep pouring into wishing wells, but perhaps not the mental stamina to keep facing the disappointment when the wishes backfire.
Ah, well, I’ve got two weeks to think about it and cultivate a plan. Wish me luck, dearies, and I’m sorry again about the chain letters. Just mark her messages as “spam.” It’s what I do.