After our discussion, I secure my Incarnate's cage with wire to prevent him skulking around the house unchaperoned. Enos is not pleased with the fact that I have taken to leaving him at home during lessons, but he has become too much of a distraction. I attempt to bond with him in my spare time (as little of that as there is), but Wart, as I have come to call him due to the pair of ugly bumps on his back, does not relish the attention. No sooner is he free from his cage than he is tearing to explore the house.

Enos is not wrong. He is growing rapidly, and I struggle to keep up with him. Long claws scrabble at any surface that stands in their way. Too often that surface is me.

Bandages encircle my arms and legs, but at least I have prevented the twins from obtaining any more wounds. And Wart has not paid any more middle of the night visits to Corsa... for which I am sure she is exceedingly grateful. She would have said so herself if she was talking to me.

Damaged as my relationships are with my family, social ones have gotten no better. Teak is the only student who still sits with me at lunch. I have strong suspicions that his raccoon just likes to have another plate to rob.

Without an Incarnate, my teachers have resorted to teaching me the basics. I heft books about agriculture, husbandry, and mathematics home under my arm every night. It is certainly less interesting than the tracking and hunting that most of the other boys are learning, but I save what small allowance Enos affords me to study in the cafes that Mab frequents. Seeing her, even accompanied by her severe lady in waiting, is reward enough. One afternoon, she plops down beside me, bemused entourage in tow.

"You know Hildish, don't you?"

"Some," I exaggerate. I started learning this year. To say I know it would be a stretch, but--

"What does this passage mean?" Her finger jabs at a line of poetry. Using a dictionary, I translate clunkily. It doesn't rhyme in our language, but the eventual gist is:

"Her love is like a candle flame.
Flickering and fading,
A most beautiful passing.
An undying death.
It passes from wick to wick.
Only extinguishing when it fails to spread.
For what man can hold a flame?
He who tries shall only be burned,
Shall only smother that which he worships.
Which is more beautiful then:
The scar or the ashes where once love lived?"

"How sad," she remarks, face falling.

"Is it?" I have to admit that I understand nothing of it.

"It's about a girl— a dancer who is loved by the masses—but there is a selfish baron who kidnaps her and forces her to perform in his theater. Slowly, she turns into a... What do you call it...? A marionette? One day, she sets fire to herself and the theater. The people mourn her. The baron only blames her for ruining his stage."

"What a silly thing to do," I say. Mab shoots me a cross look. "Why didn't she just escape? Why didn't she cut her strings? Why didn't anyone save her if they loved her so much?" Mab snatches the book.

"Good question," she snaps. "Why doesn't anyone save her? She has to save herself. At least the book gets that right."