"I guess, this day was pretty rough as well." Kirkson's voice sounded too cheerful for the occasion. "For me at least, it was. But I couldn't resist taunting His Vanity. It was a one in a lifetime experience, although I do regret it now. He might have some faults, but he is a great man."
Flattery was sitting on the stool, pecking at the dinner. Or perhaps it was super, for it was hard to tell, the magical stones and the absence of windows made it all look like one endless day.
"And how are things going with you?" asked Kirkson, so far failing to encourage Flattery to say more than a word.
Flattery shrugged.
"I see," said Kirkson. "Master Finder doesn't seem to be a very compassionate parent. It must be hard for him to understand that in his genius he created a human being, not another music box. Well… Do you need anything else I can get for you?"
"I can think of nothing", Flattery replied. He hesitated. "Somewhere between yesterday and today I wished I had a flute to practice, but now I don't want it. I'd rather stare at the ceiling."
Kirkson sighed. "Sad. I don't know if I can be of any help here, but a good book might." He came up to one of the shelves and picked a few books. "Poetry? I guess, it can be too depressing, but see for yourself. I prefer adventure stories, maybe there are some in these books. Here. Just hide them under the blanket before Master comes, or we are both in big trouble. And by big trouble I mean he won't let me even peep into this room if he thinks my influence is bad."
Flattery accepted this gift with an invisible spark of hope: he didn't remember any of them from his built-in experience so there was a good chance that it wasn't Father who wrote them. As soon as Kirkson left, he buried himself in the books. All of them were poetry, indeed. Reading about the dolorous weather or boring details of eternal love wasn't much of an entertainment; still it was good to hate something apart from music and singing, and the books gave him the feeling of being somewhere else but his cage.
When he felt tired enough to sleep, he hid the books as Kirkson advised him to. After he'd laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, lines of poetry were still lingering in his mind, but his drowsiness made him too apathetic to dismiss them. And then a strange thing happened. A voice, as clear as if it were real, said: "These are no match to the songs I sing". Flattery sprang up on his bed. It wasn't his thought. It was something alien.
I don't want your thoughts, he moaned under his breath. Go away.
He lay back, trying to wipe away every trace of Father's thoughts from his mind. But from now on his every thought was accompanied by the gnawing suspicion that it wasn't his.