shelivesinaftinparis,rentingfromsomemugglewomanwhowastryingtobeapainterbutwasn’tquitemakingitthere.thewholethingsmellslikepaintfumesandsentedandles,andthestepsaresotwistedandnarrowthatheisn’tsurehowshemakesitupthem,butitsstiniepe,justasomfortableandexpensivelookingasthemanor.

shehadaertainwayoflife,hismother,andshewasn’tgoingtoletalittlethinglikeawarstandinginthewayofhowshewantstolive.

“drao.”hismotherbreathesouthisname,andthensheishugginghim,rushinghim.theguiltthreatenstoswallowhimwhenhethinksofallthelettershedidnotanswer,butevennowthisistoomuh,toosoon.“i’msogdtoseeyou.”

“metoo.”beausehewas.helovedthiswoman,evenifshewaswrong,evenifsheonlydidtherightthingbeauseoftheneedforthefamilynametosurvive.“i’msorryittookmesolong.”

shedoesnottellhimthatitisalright,orthatshefiveshim.hedoubtsverymuhthateitherofthesethingsweretrue.shedoes,however,moveasideandlethimomein,tothishousewithitstoomanyandlesandstrangepaintings.draoletshergivehimthetour,lookingatthepitureframesshowingtheimageofafamilyheannotremembereverbeingandthemisshapenpotteryonthemantle.

“doyoulikeit?”hervoiehasaforedbrightnessaboutit,andhedoesnotknowifitisbeauseofhimorifshesimplydoesnothavethesameenergythatsheusedto.“itookuppottery.abigailtalkedmeintoit.”

abigailwasthegirldownstairs,theonewithpaintstukunderhernailsandoloredsarfshangingfromarakinherkithen.hehadtowalkthroughherfttogettohismother’s.