He's standing in front of a dark credenza. It's reminiscent of the one from his childhood, where the servants set out breakfast every morning, but the details are all wrong. Theirs never had an inlaid mirror. He watches himself in the mirror for a moment, fascinated by this.
He picks up a porcelain cup from the tray that's been set out on the credenza. It's already been filled with tea, he notes, and he tries it. It's unpleasantly viscous and unending: the more he drinks, the more there seems to be left. The excess flows thickly past the corners of his mouth, curving down his throat, staining his starched collar. He tears himself away from this horrible cup.
His reflection grins back at him with a bloody mouth.
Kirin awakens in the dark bedroom of Daud's hideout, under the weight of several blankets. He's groggy and overwarm, like some creature emerging out of hibernation. He hasn't dreamed in the longest of times, not since the chair. He's never really registered that loss before. As Karnaca slowly stirs around him, it's all he can feel there in that small bedroom. He checks his throat for any sign of the blood, but there's nothing on his fingertips, only yesterday's dried blood stiffening his shirt. Perhaps, it was a less a dream, and more of a... transmission. A link between him and his past self, who is also out there now.
How ghastly.
He's responsible for this mishap too. The world is spinning loose into its own designs, and it's all he can do is witness it all. Slowly, he gathers his resolve, sorting through the amorphous memories and his notes. Then, he leaves the quiet and dark of the bedroom.
In the living room, Thomas is methodically beginning to put away a stash of blankets folded on the floor for a pallet. It's the first time Kirin has seen him without his Whaler mask, and for a frightening moment, Kirin thinks Thomas has lost his head. He's slightly younger than Kirin—35 or so, dark-brown hair, lines already at the corners of his eyes.
"You're awake," Thomas says. "I should have checked on you."
Kirin only stares at him, trying to understand why Thomas looks like a person now and not a human-shaped beetle. "You're a person," he says with a measure of surprise.
"I've been told," Thomas replies. "I guess I should make you breakfast now, since Daud will probably be out for another hour."
He rummages around in the makeshift kitchen, considering various tins. Then, he surveys Kirin's bloodied shirt. "Wait, let me get you a fresh shirt first. I don't want your caretaker mad at me." He rifles through a drawer and puts a fresh shirt into Kirin's hands. "It's good we're about the same size."
Kirin continues to watch him, twisting his fingers together as he tries to figure out this change in Thomas. It's a mask, right? Or did all beetles have little human faces under their beetle-face? How dreadful and silly. No, no, it was a mask that had made Thomas different. Kirin's mind hurts when he tries to figure out the logistics of putting on a mask, and so he doesn't think about it, even though he wants to. He's started to conceptualize these gaps like picking at a hole in clothing; every pull at the wispy, loose threads only makes the gap worse than it was before. Maybe he'll just check one or two of the beetles in his collection when he gets back—just to be sure.
"Did you want some help with that?" Thomas asks, taking Kirin's silence for confusion.
Oh, yes. The shirt. That's what he was supposed to be doing now.
Kirin considers the offer. He nods, and Thomas gingerly undresses him, unused to this but also resolved to finish the task as quickly as possible. The bloodied shirt goes into a pile on the sofa, and Thomas quickly pulls the fresh one over Kirin's head.
"I'm not exactly good at this," Thomas says, by way of explanation, as he adjusts the shirt. "Hospitality isn't my strong suit."
Kirin doesn't mind. "Thank you," he says to the beetle with a man's face. The faintest scent of soap clings to the fabric.
Thomas looks away, taken aback. "I'll make breakfast now." He returns to his spot in the kitchen, reheating some jelled eel from a tin.
He prepares three plates and hands Kirin one—some bread, Morley apples, and warmed jelled eel. He sits on a nearby, roughly patched sofa, and Kirin follows him, still pondering the problem of the mask and the larger nature of beetles.
"I'm going to have to put the mask back on, aren't I?" Thomas asks, faintly amused. "Tell you what—finish your plate and I'll put the mask back on."
Kirin complies, and they eat in silence. The jelled eel is unusual but not unpleasant: it reminds him of his time in Dunwall at the Academy. As agreed upon, Thomas fishes for his mask once they've finished with their meal and puts it back on.
Kirin relaxes now. This makes sense again: the world is right again, and all is in order.
"Going somewhere, Thomas?" Daud asks, his voice slightly strained from waking. His clothes are rumpled from sleeping in them, and there's the morning's stubble on his face. Kirin assumes that the stiffness in Daud's body is simply from age.
"Your guest seems to prefer that I keep my mask on," Thomas replies.
Daud grins. "Does he now?"
Thomas shrugs as he hands Daud the remaining plate. "Breakfast. We've been waiting on you." But his tone is light and playful with a hint of deference—he'd never begin the day without Daud.
"You should have seen me when I had a beard," Daud tells Kirin. "You'd never have recognized me."
"A beard?" Kirin asks, trying and failing to picture this revelation.
Daud grins over a forkful of jelled eel. "Mmm, in Tyvia. Long time ago now."
"Why Tyvia?" Kirin asks, and he misses the way that Thomas subtly turns toward Daud, fascinated by this new tidbit of his past.
"Made a promise to the Royal Protector that if he spared me, he'd never see me again. I kept my word. Spent years as a woodcutter in Tyvia. Thought that's all I had left in me. Thought it was a kind of peace."
Tyvia, isn't that where Sokolov went? The name is strangely familiar to Kirin, as if it's yet another thing he ought to know. "Is it cold there?" Kirin asks.
"Outside, maybe." Daud scrapes some of the eel onto the bread. "Inside's a different matter." He pauses. "The Royal Protector used to slip away during his visits to Tyvia to see me there. I guess I was the only one he had that could understand what he'd been through. And he couldn't put that aside."
Kirin frowns. There's an implication here, but it eludes him with the knowledge that once it would not have. Once, he would have effortlessly played with them all like puppets, five steps ahead of their lesser minds, but now, he's just confused. "You talked?"
"We understood each other." And with that, Daud changes subjects. "It's been a long time since I've been back in Karnaca. It hasn't changed, though. Not sure what to make of all that."
"It's not good to dig in the mines," Kirin says. "It disturbs the lines"
Daud surveys him with interest. "The lines?"
"The lines that cross into the Void." Kirin fumbles with his inability to express how the earthly world isn't side-by-side with the Void—as if the Void were only off-stage, hidden behind the curtains—but rather, the world is cradled by it, swathed in a mystical, metaphorical spiderweb or a network of veins. But this understanding is less a conscious one, and more of one that he can simply feel now. He interlocks his fingers in a feeble attempt to visualize the interconnectedness of it all.
"I've always wondered how you see the world now," Daud says carefully.
"It's glor—glori—the lines are everywhere," Kirin replies. "Time isn't a constant." And for a moment, he doesn't understand why he's said that. Perhaps that was the key to understanding his situation. He'd been on the verge of expressing a new understanding of the world, but now he doesn't remember where he was going with that idea. Time, as a constant.
Daud leans towards him. "Do you think the Outsider is at the heart of it?"
Kirin frowns. "The Outsider?"
No, the Outsider was like a major current, directing the movement of the Void into this world, but only one of many. Without him, the Void might even become unstable. Perhaps it needed him there as a focal point, a lightning rod in the eternal darkness. But Kirin cannot find the words to express all of this: it wells inside him as an inchoate feeling, turning into seafoam in his hands.
"Maybe," he says simply.
Daud considers this. "Do you think the Outsider deserves to die after everything he's put into this world?"
This is clearly a question that has been weighing at Daud: how much responsibility must he bear? How much can be absolved? Is the Mark a blessing or a match?
Kirin doesn't know if he'd like the world without the lines. He can't say his life has gotten easier with the Mark: in some ways, it's opened him up to pain he didn't think possible. His heart sinks whenever he thinks of what he must do with his past self, what is perhaps inevitable but still excruciating. One more day, he keeps telling himself, one more day. One more reprieve and then he will steel his heart, but deep down, he knows he cannot let go of this link to the past, this artifact out of time and place. His indecision will destroy both of them.
"I don't know," Kirin replies earnestly.
Daud considers this. "Do you like what the world has become?"
Kirin thinks a moment. "It hurts." It's ambiguous: he doesn't know if it's in reference to Karnaca or himself.
And when his gaze meets Daud's, something has changed between them; something is nearing an end. Kirin thinks of the first time he ever saw snow, almost twenty-five years ago now, when he first came to Dunwall, to the Academy. He had read about snow, yes, knew the logistics of it all, but to watch those delicate flakes circle down was a different experience altogether. But the ground had been too warm, and every time, he glanced out the window, there seemed to be a little less of it each time. And yet, if Kirin had watched it without turning away, he could not have seen it melting. And that melting seemed to be here as well now, between them, utterly intangible but still present in the gossamer ties that bind.
And he cannot articulate this loss; the only words he can find don't begin to encapsulate it. "There's a difference," he says to Daud.
Daud only watches him, his breathing faintly strained. "You sense it too?" He exhales. "Don't worry about it. I've just made up my mind about something I have to do."
That isn't the whole truth of it all. Inside Daud, there is now something broken off, splintered from another time, and this temporal anomaly is now festering inside him. It's not something Kirin can explain, only feel.
"It will make you die," Kirin says with a certainty he cannot explain. He explores Daud's fingers with his own: Daud has touched something out of time, and it has poisoned him accordingly. But what? What could do such a terrible thing?
"Death comes to us all." Daud's voice is surprisingly tender.
Kirin shakes his head.
"It's alright," Daud says with an air of finality. He quietens the searching movement of Kirin's fingers with a firm yet gentle squeeze.
But how could it be alright? How could anything now? And this becomes just another thing that Kirin cannot reckon with.
When they arrive back at the cottage, Kirin's heart is heavy, but he can't remember why. The only thing that floats in his mind is Daud's temporal wound. He's not ready for any of this to end, but time is relentless. Inside, Kirin and Daud are greeted by the maid, who is folding kitchen towels.
"Did you forget something," she asks gently.
"Forget?" he replies, confused. He hasn't been back, not today at least.
"You were just here. We talked and everything. Don't you remember?"
Daud frowns. "What did you talk about?"
The maid thinks a moment. "Oh, just about living here. You sounded so unhappy." Worry crosses her face, as if she's afraid he's still sad about living in a simpler, quieter way, if he might not have chosen this life freely. "You wanted to speak with the Duke. I offered to take you there, but you left suddenly."
"The Duke?" Kirin repeats. He can barely remember what the man looks like now. Only the faintest impressions of the man's personality comes through: gregarious and intimidating at times, foolish and overly indulgent at others. Where his face should be is only a blank.
She nods. "We can still go there if you'd like. I don't know when the council meets, but that might be the best time to speak with him."
Kirin tries to reassemble the path of his past self. His mind hurts. "I would like that," he manages. What could his other self be up to?
Hypatia taps on the door lightly before entering.
"Kirin," she says with relief. "There you are. I've been so worried. I'm running late for the council meeting, but I just wanted to make sure you were alright after last night." She smiles at him and brushes some of his hair out of his face tenderly. "You look like you're doing ok."
"Will you take me there?" he asks.
"Of course," she replies, taking his hand. "Maybe we can catch up on the way there."
He's reluctant to leave Daud, even as he understands that Daud has chosen his own path, as he has. Kirin allows himself one glimpse backwards, knowing that it will not last and one day Daud will be gone for good. He hadn't known people could do that, or perhaps he'd never cared before.
On the way to the council meeting, he tells Hypatia as best he can what's going on. She's confused in parts and quietly pained in others, but she's a thoughtful listener, carefully considering everything.
"That's a lot to deal with," she says at last.
Kirin's never thought of it like that. He doesn't mind it all that much.
As they round the corner into the corridor, a familiar voice floats through and Kirin's heart sinks. It's his own. His past self got there first. Hypatia gives him a worried glance, but he misses it. Oh, he's not ready for this, not yet, but they enter the room anyway.
"Karnaca is not subject to vigilante violence," his past self says. "I am asking you to reinstate me to my position of Grand Inventor, and to open an active investigation into—" he pauses at their arrival with a barely guarded distaste. "Of course," he says. "Of course."
Hypatia makes her apologies for her tardiness, and Kirin takes this opportunity to quickly gauge the room. The Duke is perfectly composed, as if he were not currently looking at two identical people; the scent of tobacco smoke hangs on his clothes. Paolo leans back in his chair, grinning. He recognizes the telltale sign of Void magic easily. Aramis is missing, Kirin notes with surprise. Wasn't he well? Did the séance room unsettle him further? Kirin avoids glancing at Vice Overseer Byrne as much as he can; the only glimpse of he catches of Byrne's face is one of horror: the stain and corruption of the Void in the very room as him. He'll have to purify himself afterwards.
"So, which one is real?" Paolo asks.
"I am," both Kirins reply without thinking.
"Well, that settles it," Paolo replies, amused now.
"This is impossible," the Duke says carefully. "There can't be two of anyone. Kirin Jindosh didn't have a twin."
"Clearly," Kirin's past self begins, "I am the real one. Ask me whatever you want to know, and I can tell you. I can solve whatever riddle you give me."
"That's not possible," Hypatia says. "Kirin had a laboratory accident that gave him significant neurological complications. I know. I'm his physician."
Kirin watches her timidly. He's not sure what to do here. It seems that they are not really having a debate about which one of them is the "real" Kirin, but rather methodically deciding on how the "real" Kirin will be determined. Once the parameters are established, that will become the final say in the matter. He doesn't know if he feels relief at this or not.
The Duke asks Kirin a few questions, still in that authoritative tone but softer, as if he recognizes Kirin's unease.
Byrne doesn't speak at all during this meeting. Instead, his jaw is determinedly shut, as if he's afraid he'll say something he'll regret if he says anything at all.
"It's decided," the Duke says, placing his hands on the table. He turns to Kirin's past self. "You're an imposter, and you will be held at the local jail until your identity can be determined."
It's less a judgement, and more of a declaration of how things will proceed now. It's not an explanation anyone takes seriously, but rather one that is voiced so that they all know what to hold as true this time—much in the same way that Armando has seamlessly become the Duke. They have decided that Kirin's past self will be the imposter, because there simply cannot be two of him, and no one wants to unsettle the delicate alliance between the Abbey and Karnaca.
"What?" Kirin's past self interrupts. "This is clearly wrong."
Similarly, Kirin feels no sense of justice or relief at this, only unease, and as his past self being taken away to a temporary holding cell, Kirin cannot help but think that this is no solution at all.
Kirin's glad to be back at his cottage. The maid greets him warmly, and she chats with him about which flowers he might like in the front yard. Hypatia lingers a while to listen and give her advice: snapdragons, showy blue ceanothus, tightly-petaled ranunculus. No tulips or daffodils, though; Karnaca is too warm for bulbs. Before she leaves, she tells Kirin that two of her colleagues will be by later in the afternoon. She gives their names, but they don't register with Kirin. He makes a note of what he can figure out and leaves it at that.
He's trying to let it be, but it's so difficult to be resigned to only catching half of what's said. He thinks of his other self, in that horrible and cold jail cell now. He wasn't an imposter anymore than Kirin was. How deep does identity go? How many things can he change about himself before he becomes a different person, alien to himself? Or did that presume identity as a static trait, something inborn and fixed rather than fluid and inevitably prone to change, incremental as it may be?
Is he still himself now? Is his past self now more himself? Or were they both facets of himself?
His head hurts as he tries to puzzle it out. He's lost track of the time and has just decided on pinning some of the new beetles for the collection when his maid comes into the bedroom with a smile.
"They're here," she says brightly.
Kirin follows her into the living room, peeking behind her. There's a plain-looking, yet professional man and woman sitting on the sofa. He's shy around these strangers, painfully aware of his inadequacies now. Once, it would have been easy to play the witty, charmingly sophisticated host, and now he's just trying to figure out what he's supposed to be doing here.
They make their introductions, and Kirin misses that too. What a terrible start. They're going to laugh at him, he just knows it. They're going to go back to Hypatia and tell her about how stupid he was now, like she didn't already know.
They put him through one of the tests that Hypatia already did with him. It's more distressing the second time, because he already knows he's going to fail in spite of his efforts. Even worse, while Hypatia kept the results to herself, only the minuscule movements of her mouth betraying her sadness, these two freely discuss his results amongst themselves like it's a mildly interesting topic of purely theoretical debate.
Kirin feels as though he could leave the room, and it would go unnoticed by these two. Still, he doesn't want them to be angry with him. If they were angry, they might decide he shouldn't be living on his own at all.
He can bear this.
He glances over at his maid. Hers is the carefully neutral face of a servant in the presence of others, her hands folded in front of her, her stance attentive but not overbearing. But when she catches his gaze, she gives him a small smile of reassurance.
He relaxes a little.
"Oh, we've forget part of our assessment," the woman says abruptly, cutting off the debate about what particular treatment would be best for his lack of spatial understanding—or if it was incurable. She leans towards the maid. "We'll need to speak to Kirin alone," she says crisply. "Just a few questions, and then you can have him back."
Kirin turns helplessly to his maid. He doesn't want her to leave him. He's afraid of these strangers and whatever they might want from him. But she only gives him another small smile and squeezes his hand.
"I'll be nearby if you need me," she says gently.
Kirin's heart sinks as she leaves. He watches the door, silently willing her to come back.
"Excellent," the man says. "We just have a few questions to ask you. It's standard procedure, since under Karnacan law, you're considered a highly vulnerable person. Dr. Hypatia may have already told you about what to expect."
He readies a paper. "Has anyone been hurting or forcing you to do something you don't want to do? It doesn't have to hurt."
Kirin can't follow along. His mind is a blur of memories: if they asked now, he wouldn't be able to tell them what year it was.
"Do you think he understands anything?" the man asks his colleague. "Alexandra said he had significant neurological damage. He might not understand us."
"Let's try more slowly," the woman replies. She turns to Kirin. "Is someone hurting you?" she says with a strangely drawn-out enunciation.
This treatment stings at him. He doesn't understand what's changed between here and the council. He was nervous at the council too, but he wasn't treated like this there. He could tell that the Duke modified his questions for him; this, however, is completely humiliating. Still, still, he doesn't want them angry, even though he can't remember why now.
He shakes his head. He doesn't think anyone is hurting him now.
"Do you think that counts as an answer?" the man asks his colleague.
The woman pauses in thought. "Would it be better to have visual confirmation?"
"I think so."
Kirin doesn't like the sound of any of this.
The man turns to Kirin. "We just need to take a look at you. Please disrobe."
Kirin stares at him in horror. Surely not?
"We just want to make sure you don't have any marks on you," the woman says. "You might not remember being hurt."
Kirin struggles to speak. "There aren't any."
"We'd like to double check. Just to be certain." The man mimes undoing buttons. "Don't be shy; we're doctors."
Kirin finds it difficult to move now; he's so frightened. He doesn't want to do any of this; it's bad enough that he has to endure his baths, but this?
"Do you think he needs help taking them off?" the man asks his colleague.
The thought of either one of them undressing him makes him sick. Kirin shakes his head. His body starts shaking in protest.
Mercifully, one of the doctors notice this change.
"Maybe next time," the woman says decisively. She tries to ask him another question, this one about being forced to ingest any drugs, but his mind is completely static with residual fear.
He shakes his head, once he's pushed enough of the terror aside. What is he doing here anyway? He has a project he should be working on instead: something about seawater. The mineral composition was vital. It's going to be late if he doesn't start putting it together now.
A few more questions, and then his maid is allowed back in the room. He nearly collapses from relief. There's only the faintest of worry on his maid's face before it falls behind a perfectly composed façade.
"Right then," the man says. "We've prepared a small activity for you." He pulls out several sheets of colored paper, and Kirin recognizes it instantly. It's a kind of Tyvian paper art. His mother spent hours at her desk folding the brightly patterned paper to create intricate miniatures that he was never allowed to touch. She kept the ones she liked and threw the others into the fire.
Finally, a chance to make something!
One of the doctors takes a sheet of paper as the sample and sets another in front of him. The woman gives him instructions; part of him knows it's another test of how well he can translate the verbal directions into tactile movements, but he doesn't mind. He's missed making things. The paper folds easily under his gloved fingers: he falls into an easy pattern of creasing it and unfolding, and then folding back. What are they making? A frog perhaps. They were fairly popular. He'd have been able to instantly gauge this before, only a few steps in.
The problem comes when it comes to folding part of the frog's mouth part. He can't visualize this, and even when the doctor demonstrates on the sample several times, he can't follow it. They've simply reached one of the fraying gaps in his mind. Fear starts creeping back in. Experimentally, he folds one side back. No, that's wrong. He tries the other side. Wrong again. They show him on the sample. He tries again, and deep lines start to mar the little paper frog, immutable crevices across its face.
It's ruined. He's ruined. He's never going to make anything ever again, and this botched creature is only proof of that. He didn't need anyone from Addermire to tell him that.
He doesn't want to be here anymore. This is something a child could have done, and he's managed to mess it up. His head hurts badly now. He's tried so hard, and it doesn't really matter because it's not a matter of trying. Everything is just simply gone now, and he's expected to not mind it at all.
The doctors are mildly interested in his inability to finish the craft. They start up one of their debates, pondering which part of his brain must have been affected to produce this result, and he really doesn't like that discussion at all. Maybe they're not really here to help him regain his skills. Maybe they know it's impossible and they'd just like to collect some data on it, before they make him go to Addermire where they can study him endlessly with these tasks he can't ever complete. It won't matter what he has to say or think or feel. It'll just be a row of incomprehensible days chalked up to the greater good.
He bolts from the room, simply wanting to be away from them. He just wants to be alone for a while until he can recalibrate. Then maybe he can pretend that none of this bothers him, least of all since it's all he can look forward to. He hides in a closet of one of the bedrooms. It's quiet and dark here. He closes his eyes tightly, and tries to make himself as small as possible. Maybe they'll overlook him. Maybe if they can't find him, they'll just forget about him. That would be good.
His heart is loud, but he tries to ignore it. He shouldn't have left the room: that'll probably be taken as a sign of his incurable nature, that he can't sit quietly and placidly, and listen to all of the rude speculation about him. They probably just assumed he couldn't be able to understand all of it, and they're right: he can't follow it at all, but he does understand they are talking about him in front of him.
He doesn't like this world very much: it's alien and incomprehensible. He never knows when someone will make the effort to include him in the conversation or not. And he's painfully aware that it takes effort to talk with him now.
He leans against one of the walls to feel the vein of the Void flowing past it. It's a buzzing energy, the hum of a bloodfly, crackling with untapped potential. The Void is so close: could he go into it now? Just pass into it and leave these strange world behind for a few hours?
His revelation is forgotten when the maid calls for him in her soft voice. He stays quiet, though. She searches around in the room, and his heart sinks as she opens the closet door. He doesn't want any more tests, and he doesn't want to be discussed anymore.
She's puzzled over his hurt,. "What's the matter?" she asks, as she crouches down beside him, surveying him with concern.
He watches her, trying to comprehend her question, but her words don't register with him anymore. He can only catch every other word in his terror. "I don't want to," he manages. "No more tests."
She nods. "I understand."
Before she leaves, she rubs his shoulder gently. "I'll be back," she says. He can hear her in the living room now. "I'm sorry," she tells the doctors, "but Kirin is really overwhelmed today." Her voice trembles a little. She's unused to having any sort of authority. "He needs some rest now. Perhaps we can reschedule later?"
He doesn't understand what makes any of this different now. He's become used to not being able to have a say in things, and just thinking about this loss of control sickens him. But he hears them leave, and he bursts into tears from the relief of it all, or perhaps it's the combined pain of the day.
She returns to him, her face flush from the effort, but smiling to herself, as though she's done something she didn't quite know she had it in her to do before. She curls up beside him and takes his hand again. She squeezes it reassuringly, before reaching for the corner of her apron. In gentle, firm strokes, she starts to wipe away his tears.
"It's alright," she says softly. "It's alright."
His feelings are a tangled knot; the words to express them elude him.
"It's ok," she replies. "I'm here now."
His body keeps trembling from the residual panic, and he's ashamed of this painfully physical display of his own fright, but she doesn't pay it any mind. Instead, she continues to murmur soft words of reassurance and dry his tears.
"Cry for as long as you'd like," she says, rubbing his shoulder. "And when you're feeling a little better, we'll have some tea. Some nice tea will be just the thing."
He doesn't know now how long he's been crying, or even why, but he doesn't feel so miserable now. Life is bearable again.
She notices this change in his breathing. "There we go," she murmurs. She guides him to the kitchen and pulls up a chair from a nearby room for him. Then she fusses with the stove for a few moments and starts boiling a kettle on it.
"Mint or chamomile?" she asks, holding up two jars of dried herbs.
He hesitates. This is still overwhelming for him.
"Mint is nice for nausea," she says. "And chamomile is good for nerves. I like both."
He considers this new information. "Mint," he decides.
She smiles before taking the almost boiling kettle off the stove. She steeps the tea for a few minutes and then straining out the leaves, pours two cups. She offers him one, and he accepts. And for a moment, in the warm kitchen, he forgets the pain of the day.
