Dear Trillium.

It had been six weeks since the captain set sail, the glistening sun upon departure a beacon to those who left the port. I had been labeled greenhorn, the nautical term for amateur I assume. I felt ill, not from the rough ocean we travelled, but the homesickness I had forgotten to take into account before taking this passage to Fawntaine. I always praised you for rarely getting ill, or letting it hold you down. I would purposely make myself ill just so I could apply methods you told me to follow.