Although I am loathe to mar a book not my own, it seems I have little other recourse. I cannot carry these in my head any longer.

[Several detailed sketches follow: a bridge support, a complicated pulley, and what appears to be some type of lever.]

I have not found any books to read in this room, and, despite being bored out of my wits, I am loathe to venture out from what seems to be a rather secure position although the door appears unlocked. If I am left to my own devices for much longer, however, I will take my chances with what lies outside. My mind rebels at stagnation.

My own journal was in my carpet bag, which I assume was left behind by whoever transported me here, so I shall use this one as a means of marshalling my thoughts in this unexpected and frankly terrifying situation. That a gentleman should be terrified by an antiquely furnished room is a laughable prospect indeed, but it is not so much the circumstances I find myself in that frighten me but the circumstances under which I came to be here. They frighten me because I remember nothing about them, and no one has yet arrived to tell me the least detail.

OOC: He wrote this before Norrington came in, I suppose.