Why was he going to Mama? What was the point? The original notion of having to inform her that his fellows had been, in all probability, captured, was not at all appealing to Galley. Told plainly, he'd rather have had his gums scraped by rusty hooks. The fact remained, however, that he was softly treading his way through the sewers, as if by a sort of self-propelled homing beacon, towards her den.

He didn't fear her any longer, however. That feeling was long since gone. She unnerved him, yes, but that was all: he felt almost on par with Mama now, far more adult than previously. He knew all too well that she depended on him to bring her money. She required that he be alive. Yet, the feeling of doubt never evaporated from the pit of his stomach, and continued to nag away unabated. She couldn't kill him, true, but she could make life hellish for Galley.

So why was he still going? A sense of twisted duty to her? After all, the young woman did fulfil a matronly sort of role. She mended their clothes, cooked food, and occasionally told stories. Yet none of the children managed to quite cosy up to her. Tricks, the closest to such status, did so only because she respected Mama's authority: any older female would have sufficed in that respect. They were all painfully aware of her cold glances and uncaring heart. She was unbelievably selfish, and would have used the children 'til the end of days had it been necessary or, indeed, possible.

But it no longer was. Tricks and Marlo were gone. Galley needed no confirmation of that fact. He knew it, down to his bones; knew it as well as he knew that Squim would never return, either. If anything, he would go search out his sister – probably in vain, not that such things would stop him – for the rest of his maladjusted life. The niche she held in his life had created far too glaring a hole after her departure for him to ignore. In essence, then, Galley was the Sewer Rat, with no other acquaintances to fall back on. It was a sobering thought.

He walked through the shadows, the paths laid out in his memory, dreading each step yet taking them all in turn, and then more. In time, the faint light of Mama's hole came into view. There was home. But would it be home any longer? He didn't know. But the thought of his bright visions for the future gave him the courage to step into that light, and face the soft-tongued demon within.

Mama had been dozing lazily, but upon his entrance leapt up upon her bedding. Her eyes swept a bit too quickly over Galley and behind him for his liking. He stood in the entrance, staring her in the eye, not budging.

She hissed. "Where are the others?"

Galley shook his head. "There was a alarm. I ran; don't think they got out."

Mama had always steeled herself for this day. The talented young lives she'd taken under her wing were not invincible; it was inevitable that one or two would, in time, be culled from her tiny flock. But that did nothing relieve the shock that pierced her frame. "What did you say, young one? They are gone?" She began to rise, causing Galley to flinch involuntarily.

He looked at his feet, removing his cap warily. "Yeah. All the soldiers were comin' back, so I got out. They went'n looked somewhere and I didn't see 'em again." His eyes scanned the rough lines of his shoes, trying their best not to look up into Mama's face. Her visage in that moment of realisation had been too terrible, instantly dissolving any resolve the lad had originally garnered to stand up to her. He was just an awkward little boy again, writhing about in the storm of the tyrant who was now towering over him.

He'd anticipated rough treatment. Instead, he received a pat on the head. "Well, that cannot be helped, I suppose. At least one of you got out."

Galley's eyes bulged in surprise. What? He wasn't going to be punished? Was it some angel of mercy who had granted him this mysterious reprieve? Granted, he had followed Mama's rules in running; but he'd still anticipated some form of recrimination on her part. But this warm appraisal of the boy. . . what was behind it? The road from shock to suspicion was very short, and where other small boys would simply have been proud, Galley sensed even greater trouble brewing for himself.

He looked up at her, twisting his face into disbelief. "You're not mad?"

She smiled, though it had all the warmth of a corpse. Like a snake attempting valiantly to smile reassuringly while readying a knife behind their friend's back. "No, Galley. You did as I said. You are an intelligent young boy." She renewed her patting of his head, and he noted how very forced it seemed. Limp, uncertain, and without much emotion. She was putting on an act for him. Her face before, the first, had been the real Mama: this was a front, a ruse. Why bother? She never had before. What the devil was the point?

"Squim ran 'way. Don't think he'll be back."

Mama looked momentarily jarred but quickly recomposed herself. Another one gone? Damn. "Well, then, I suppose it is just you and I from now on. No?"

Galley didn't respond. His eyes were travelling across her body. His recent brush with sexuality – forced though it had almost been – had seemingly opened his eyes to certain things, such as how striking Mama was. Why was she in the sewers, anyway? She looked pretty enough to be an elite. And her sense of diction, too. . . far too educated. He'd never realised these things before. All of them had simply taken for granted that she was a smart adult. But no other adults Galley had encountered in his life were this smart. She acted like an elite, too, looking down upon the Sewer Rats and dispensing orders like a Goddess upon her pedestal of seat cushions.

She was striking, yes. Exotic almost, especially with her outlandish garb. But one could also argue that monsters were striking, too, just in a different sense. And if Mama didn't fit into the monstrous criteria externally, well, why not internally? Galley was certain she did. In that moment he learned what it meant to hate another person, as he knew that Mama intended to keep on using him as she always had. In this moment of rage he pulled away from her suddenly and made for the doorway.

He didn't make it, of course. Mama had been watching the thoughts roiling about in his head, guessed what they were, and was ready to grab hold of his shoulder when the time came. The boy was, as always, a bit too smart for her liking: but, then, that's what made him such a good thief. She couldn't let this one get away, not yet. Her fingernails bit into his flesh, carnal predators seeking to grapple the lad into submission.

"No, no, I do not think so. I can tell what you mean to do, Galley, and I find it very uncharitable of you to simply leave me high and dry." She pulled him back into her, wrapping her arms around his neck. "How could you dare even think of leaving poor Mama, all alone? I raised you, young one."

Galley resisted. It was to no avail, however: her grip was like iron. The mental powers that had granted him use of the moonstone before seemed utterly drained, as well. No incantation to the silver moon hanging somewhere far overhead would save him now. Galley was caught.

Mama kneeled behind Galley, arms still crossed over his throat and torso, pulling him closer. He felt acutely aware of her chest pressing into his back; it nearly sickened him. The thought of bodily contact suddenly brought revulsion to his mind. It forced into him a sense of restraint, of being kept from mounting up to the stars: so long as somebody held him close, he would never reach his goal. He would never save those people that kept him close.

But, then, he didn't really want to save Mama. On the contrary, he wished she were dead.

"You should keep that in mind, Galley. You are mine, for as long as I wish to retain you. Do you understand?"

He wished she were dead. But no gleaming silver shards granted his wish this time.