They're slowly growing in length.

This one is a bit more narrative than the other two, but I wanted to show Silas (Celestin) with his family, and not just observing them.

Papa said God was punishing the family. Why else would his son be so monstrous? Such things were a sure sign that God was angry, and he had taken it out on Celestin Moreau.

They were sat around the table for Sunday dinner, and Papa gave the prayer.

'Dieu, nous vous prions pour la rémission de nos péchés. Nous vous prions nous soulagez de cette malédiction, parce que nous nous repentons avec le coeur pur et l'esprit clair. Amen.'

The prayer being said, Papa took his first bite. It was family tradition that the father ate first, testing the food before he could approve it for his family. Beside him, Celestin felt his mother stiffen in anticipation. It would not have been the first time his papa had rejected a dinner, and those were some of the very worst nights. He bit his lip, watching Papa, and then Maman, wondering what he had done to his family that God would punish them so horribly.

Papa chewed slowly. He always chewed slowly. "To savour the flavour,' he explained. The test could not be performed correctly if he rushed, but Celestin could hear the grumble of his own stomach from somewhere down below, and he felt Maman's hand on his lap - a gentle warning. Patience.

'No good,' Papa announced finally. He thrust his plate forward, and Maman scurried to clear it away. Everything must be done with haste. Everything. The table must be cleared, the dishes washed, a new meal prepared. Maman never had much time for anything. She never ate after Papa rejected a meal. To do so was strictly forbidden. Papa said the bible gave a woman her place, and she must adhere to the Holy Book above all others. If he told her to do something, he always followed it with, "God wills it".

Dieu et mon droit. God and my right. It was the reasoning his papa lived by, the fabric that held their lives together. A man had a right to an obedient family. A wife had a right to a husband who would protect her from outside influences (though the cruelty of his own hand held no limits). A mother and father had a right to a good son. A son had a right to ... nothing. He stood when they told him. He made their bed and scrubbed the lavatory and listened to stories of Joseph and his amazing coat of many-colours. He dreamed he could walk on water. He wished for a tan and blue eyes and black hair. He hoped one day to see England and Germany and Italy.

And he had a right to nothing.

Maman set down a bowl of broth with shaky hands. If Papa did not approve this time ... Celestin bowed his head. He said the prayer along with his father, watching the food with eyes glittering hungrily. There was little broth left now. Maman poured the rest into the potted rose she kept by the sink. It reminded her of Italy and Spain, places she had visited when she was younger and studying to be a teacher.

'Tea,' ordered Papa. This time, it was Celestin who hurried to oblige. With the stealth of a cat, he swiftly removed the mug from the table. Maman pursed her lips, for she never approved of him touching her porcelain. He could drop it with his clumsy hands. It was only when he returned with a full mug of tea that Papa noticed him. 'Is my son a woman?'

The boy balked. 'Non, Papa!'

'Is my son so sinful as to take the responsibilities of a woman from his mother?'

At this, he did not know quite how to reply. Ought he to lie, to tell his father no? But would he not be in more trouble should he answer yes, and proclaim himself sinful?

'No - Oui, Papa.'

Papa set down his tea, appraising his son. Celestin, small, nervous, trembling with a nervous energy that permeated the room, was watching his papa with wary eyes. He was too small, too pale, too sombre for a boy of seven. On very rare occasions, Monsieur Moreau pitied his young son. Did not Jesus Christ tell him he must do so? And when he remembered this, he felt he must make up for the times when he allowed his temper to get the best of him. He pulled the boy to him, offering tea and broth.

'The hungry are always sinful.'

The boy nodded. Always. 'Oui, Papa.' He would say anything, do anything, for these moments with his father. It was not the same with Maman, who was always quiet and tiny, floating around like a limp sheet. Papa could be risible. He could tell jokes and pat his Celestin on the head. The boy smiled crookedly; the two front teeth had fallen out, leaving behind a gap as black night. And Papa smiled. Papa smiled, feeding him broth and tea and promising a peaceful night. Maybe a peaceful week.

'It is holy to suffer, Celestin,' said Papa. 'The holiest men have suffered, and the church makes them saints.' He appeared deep in thought for a moment, then waved for the dishes to be taken away. 'Maybe you are destined for the sainthood, Celestin.'

Maman removed the dishes silently and proficiently, her lips drawn into a tight line, but Celestin Moreau saw only his father's eyes as he breathed, 'Oui, Papa. Peut-etre.'