During his sleep he suddenly became aware of many things. Knowledge about the world and himself filled his consciousness, but it all felt strange, incomplete and disconnected, as if someone had been trying to glue up a broken cup using pieces from a completely different set of china.

When he woke again the first thing he saw was the same man who had been talking to him.

"How do you feel now?" asked the man.

"Cold" he said, sitting up on the hard surface, rather a worktable than a bed.

"It's because you are naked." The man handed him something through the gap between the bars. "Here are some clothes for you."

"Why am I in a cage?" he asked the man, reaching out and touching the metal bars before taking the clothes.

"Oh. That's for our mutual safety. You see, my workshop is full of scientific and magical objects and we don't want you to come across something dangerous while wandering around. Your living quarters, although not very spacious, have everything you might need, and when you are ready, I'll let you out."

After putting on the linen shirt and the woolen trousers the man had given him he looked at the man's own clothes and said:

"Your clothes look different. I want jewels on my clothes as well."

The man laughed. "You'll have to work harder than that to earn some jewels of your own. Why do you even care for jewels?"

"I don't know. They look shiny and beautiful."

The man looked slightly amused. "Who might have thought that you'd care for such things."

"Well, you care for them if you wear them. Why can't I?"

"I never thought—" started the man and then it came to him that he was participating in a sort of childish dialogue he never expected to waste time on. "Never mind. Now, do you feel warm enough to sing?"

"Sing?" He blinked. "I don't know. I feel strange. What happened to me?"

"You were born", replied the man. "That must feel strange. I don't actually remember how it felt for me."

"I remember a lot of things, but my memories feel… weird."

"It's because they are not your memories, they are mine. I gave them to you."

"Why?" he asked, wondering if it made any difference if his memories weren't his own from the beginning.

"You need to have them to sing my songs. Will you please sing something for me now?"

He tried. At first, his voice was so weak and shaky that he wondered if he could sing at all, but by the middle of the first verse he thought that the sound of his voice was more or less close to the pattern in his head.

"Stop that!" cried the man. "Do you call that singing?"

"What else do you think it is?" he retorted, all of a sudden feeling irritated too.

The man looked surprised and then his eyes narrowed.

"You are not to speak to me like that. I created you, I am your Father and you are to behave and to do as I say."

"Father…" the son repeated thoughtfully, this new information making him forget the feeling of anger. "Do you want me to try again?"

Father calmed down. "Yes. And try to keep to the rhythm more carefully this time."

This time Father didn't let him finish the verse and made him start it from the beginning again. And then he stopped him again to show how the song was supposed to sound. Father's voice was rich and strong and it matched perfectly to the pattern engraved in the son's mind. The son's face darkened when he realized how different Father's voice was from his own.

"Now you try," said Father.

"I can't. I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" echoed Father as though it was the last thing he expected to hear. "All right, we'll continue training after you have something to eat. I'll have Maryje bring you some food.

He left.

The son searched his memories to see if he knew who Maryje was. He knew. She was an apprentice and a friend. And she loved him. Curios to meet this Maryje and feeling better now that Father had left, the son stood up to examine the room and the fenced part of it which Father called 'living quarters'. There were no windows, and whoever had put the furniture into the workshop obviously preferred wardrobes and shelves to armchairs or tables. There was a marble-topped desk, apparently Father's workplace, with things like scripts and quills cluttered on it. More scripts, books and odd objects (some glowing almost as bright as the magical light-stones in the ceiling) lay on the shelves, which were crowding up every wall of the workshop. Almost every shelf contained a musical instrument.

The cage, on the other hand, contained next to nothing. The worktable for a bed, a low three-legged stool with no particular purpose for existence, and a well in the corner. The thin mattress and the blanket could do nothing to make the worktable-bed any softer so the only difference between the bed and the floor was the fact that the bed was much higher.

There was a small wooden frame hanging above the well. He came up to it and was startled to see his Father's piercing blue eyes — before realizing it was a mirror. Had the face in the mirror looked less pale and wary, he would have thought that Father was watching him through a small framed window. The face was his own, still it had nothing but Father's features.

He heard somebody sing. The sound was muffled and after just a few seconds the singing stopped. The workshop door opened and a young woman came in. She looked beautiful as well as nervous. Her glance searched the room for its occupant and as soon as her eyes met his, she looked down at the tray she was holding.

"I brought you some food", she forced herself to say.

"Why did you sing?" he asked.

"To open the door," answered Maryje without looking up. "Singing is the key".

At this point she faced an obvious dilemma: the tray wouldn't go through the bars, for it was too wide, and Maryje had to either go and fetch the key to the cage's door or to put the tray onto the corner of the desk and pass the bowl, the cup and the bread through the bars one by one. She chose the latter option. Carefully, as though there was a poisonous snake behind the bars, she stretched out her hand, holding the bowl, intending to put it onto the floor at the other side. The son came up to her, watching her closely then bending down to pick up the bowl.

"What is this?" he asked, hoping to make Maryje look directly in his eyes. He couldn't understand why she was ignoring him.

"Soup," she said, finally looking up. By the expression of her face he guessed that what she saw made her feel even more uncomfortable.

"And some wine," she added after an awkward pause, turning to the tray again. "And bread."

"Maryje, you can sing well, can't you?" he asked before she took the last thing from the tray, a loaf of bread.

"Why?" she asked, her surprise making her sound human.

"Can you teach me so that when Father asks me to sing for him again, he shall not be disappointed?"

Maryje picked the loaf from the tray, her face frowning indecisively.

"It is for Master to decide if I am to teach you anything. You can ask him yourself, if you like."

Something in her voice indicated that she didn't want to help him at all.

"Now eat your dinner. I'll come up later to collect the dishes." Having decided against putting bread on the floor, she outstretched her hand for him to take the loaf. But instead of taking the loaf he caught her by her wrist so that she wouldn't go away.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, his tight grip unintentionally hurting her. The loaf fell on the floor.

"But I thought you'd—" he breathed out, puzzled by the fear and disgust in her eyes.

And then he realized. It wasn't his memory and it wasn't he who she loved. She didn't care for him at all, she was terrified of him, dreaded the very thought of being around him. She was here just because Father ordered her to bring the food.

His grip became weary and he let go of her hand. Without saying another word she hurried out of the room.

"I thought you'd help me," he muttered sitting down on his bed, realizing just how stupid he had been.

The soup went cold long before he felt hungry enough to eat it.