Here follows my very first diary entry, I suppose. It's an odd sort of thing to do - at least, it feels odd knowing what we know about writing on this island. It is somewhat disquieting to imagine that my words are to remain here, indelible, no matter what else might befall us. I shall be certain to use some of the very finest words I know, and to avoid making any errors if I can help it. I should like to think of myself as a proficient writer, although I must confess this has never been an indulgence of mine until now. No matter - we all promised Miss Evans, so I shall endeavour to make the best of this.

I never could have imagined, only weeks past, that I might decide to stay here - and perhaps I shall regret my decision, weeks from now. But so much has changed in these few short weeks - I am not the person I was when I arrived here. And Abigail - She Who Would Confound The Mighty, I should say - she is so changed. She took the opportunity to speak with me as we awaited the ship from Barra. I scarcely recognise her now, and yet that felt like the closest conversation I ever had with her. She instructed me never to think of myself as anything greater than any other person, and warned me that she would be watching in case I ever did.

And then the ship arrived and they showed me to the sumptuous cabin that had been prepared for me, the heiress of the Drummond estates, and I thought about who I am, and who I was, and why I was who I was, and I stole away from the ship just before it set sail. I hope they can forgive me, but I simply cannot go back. Not now.

I'll miss them all - well, most of them, at least. I am sorry not to have had a chance to offer them a proper good-bye, or even my apologies for being horrid to them. I should have liked to stay friends with the Lizzies, but I'm so glad they have their families - it is pleasing to me to think that my last memory of them will be the Campbells all together on the deck of the ship, Mr Campbell smiling like I've never seen him smile before… and the Caulfields, chattering happily with Reverend Hempell and wondering at the strange music playing on the radio.

And then there was Ms Crane, one of those who had taken the lifeboat to Barra to fetch help, and Dr Cheshire with Miss Lund - and Miss Mira of course, who looked like she was about to cry until Dr Cheshire gave her some whisky, and then she really did cry. It is strange, knowing that I shan't ever see any of them again, after all we have been through. It is a pity, just as it is a pity that Mx Winter decided to stay (no, Alice, you really must work harder at being kind!) but it comforts me to know that I am not to be alone here.

Actually, it was something of a surprise, finding out just how many of us have elected to remain on the island. I saw nearly a score of sailors and passengers standing atop the cliffs, waving farewell to the ship as it made its departure - nearly a score, that is, if one considers the spirits who stood alongside us.

I suppose it can hardly be considered unexpected that Miss Cross has chosen to remain - the sun god she worships appears to reside on this island, after all. She gave such a sweet farewell to those of us who boarded the ship - I noticed a few people looking askance at her as she did so, but there was little sign of the mistrust that had flared up between them only a week ago.

Then there is my cousin Gerda - and even before the ship arrived, she had indicated her intention to find some way to imprison herself on this island. In truth, I had imagined that she might be perturbed by my escape from the ship… but no, she greeted the news with what I fancy might have been a modicum of weary understanding. I suppose she is rather preoccupied at present - ever since she died, she seems to have spent a good deal of her time arguing with herself. I feel sad for her.

I admit I was somewhat taken aback to see the Master alongside those of us who stayed. I understand now, of course - Mr Shaw is still loose somewhere in the mountains, and the Master feels that it is his responsibility to bring him to justice. In point of fact, it has become something of an obsession of his - I have been careful to stay out of his way recently.

And then of course, there is Miss Evans, who has been so keen for all of us to write down our experiences - I believe she has some kind of plan. And Miss Fiammetta, and Mr Deveaux, who actually seemed to make an effort to speak civilly with Miss Fiammetta yesterday, I observed (Dr Caulfield's influence, no doubt!).

What now? Well, I suppose we had all better get to work making something good on this island. Of course, Miss Evans and Miss Fiammetta have been in close communication about the ritual they are planning - I don't entirely understand, but I am sure I shall find it most instructive.

I have risen early to watch the sunrise - not in the way Miss Cross does, although I cannot help but notice her blue flame at the top of her tower as I write this. The sea is calm this morning. I had not appreciated it before, but this island has a certain melancholy beauty, when looked at in the right light.

It has been something of an eventful week. It started with a huge argument between cousin Gerda and the spirit that calls itself He Who Makes The Best Of Things. It seems that Gerda had gone down to the hidden chamber under the marsh in order to break apart the 'story columns' everyone has been talking about. It turns out that she was unable to do any damage to them at all - written words cannot be destroyed on this island, the spirits say - but He Who Makes The Best Of Things was awfully upset with Gerda, calling her a traitor and a saboteur and all sorts of other unpleasant names.

Of course, Gerda was terribly apologetic, insisting that she was only trying to end the narrative. But He Who Makes The Best Of Things simply would not let the matter lie, asking her if she knew what it truly meant to “end the narrative” and accusing her of trying to destroy the machinery of the island in order to prevent herself from being bound. And Gerda was shaking her head and saying again and again that she wanted to bind “Betrayal” - that this was the very reason she had remained on the island, after all. And - oh dear! - He Who Makes The Best Of Things still would not listen, glaring at her and telling her he knew how betrayal works, how it always takes over in the end. After that, he scarcely let her out of his sight.

Things got a little better after the ritual, of course. As it happens, I was not allowed to attend - I believe He Who Makes The Best Of Things was afraid I might become a story like the rest of them. I wait told to wait on the shore of the lake and to look in the direction of the marshes - the spirits thought I might find it interesting to see how things changed. So I saw which of them entered the overground chamber: cousin Gerda, and Miss Cross, and Miss Fiammetta, and Miss Evans, Mr Deveaux, and Helios, and the Tempest.

So I waited… and I waited… and then at last I saw the Tempest fly out of the ritual chamber and soar high over the island. And it sped across the sky above my head, trailing clouds behind it, and finally disappeared over the far horizon. But something else followed in its wake - I felt it as it passed over me. It was like the experience of having water close over me, but softly - a gentle wave rather than a vicious one. Ah, but that is barely right either - there was something electric about it that left my skin prickling. Writing is difficult, I have realised - some things seem to defy being nailed down in stories. Nonetheless, I have offered my best attempt to describe what happened - I only hope it will be good enough.

Afterwards, they told me Miss Evans and Miss Fiammetta and Mr Deveaux had all changed, just as Abigail and cousin Gerda and Miss Cross had done. They said it hadn't been possible to trap all of the stories again, with so few people there to aid them - but that all of us here would stay here, forever, holding onto what little the island could still contain. They said that the Tempest had gone out into the world to offer people freedom from the stories that were trying to take over their lives, but that the rest of the world would not have to worry about some of the more dangerous stories, at least. I knew who they meant - cousin Gerda, of course - but it seems that a few other stories have stayed here as well: Lucy Belmont and the selkie, and the masked man who kept stealing things from the communal pot - and He Who Makes The Best Of Things and Helios of course, and Phoebe and Mr Deveaux (Reconciliation, they called him), and -

- and they gave new names to Miss Evans and Miss Fiammetta. Miss Evans doesn't much like hers - The Vortex is overly dramatic, she says; Stories Within Stories is much more pleasant, and rather closer to what she actually is - so that is what I shall call her. Miss Fiammetta seems amused by hers - The Hook. In any case, He Who Makes The Best Of Things says the two of them together make for a much better trap than the Tempest ever was.

I suppose only time will tell.