I can move on from the poultry farm now. Though I think my nose had gotten used to the decay, I will be glad to breathe fresher air again. Before I had grown accustomed, the smell had taken me back (as scents are so prone to do), to the duck egg-blue bedroom of my childhood home. The one with the long laced curtains and the footstool by the fire. I always wanted to be in there. Except for the times that I didn't.

Next, it will be either the desert or the Mills for my training. I am inclined to say the Mills. I'd rather stay away from the heat and the sand. And, I heard that there are zombies out there in the desert. I think I've had my fill of rot for now.

Though, I haven't moved on yet today. I've taken the turn off. I came to my father's house instead - though, he is not home. He'll be off somewhere with Lathai. That is my father's husband. He is only a little bit older than me. It seems cruel to write it like that - forgive me. I did not mean badly by it. I like Lathai well enough. The two of them have been rather happy with one another for a long while now.

I did not really come here to see him anyway. So it matters little that he is out. I came here to bathe, and to eat his food. I've had my bath already, and now I'm writing from his kitchen. He never minds that I come here. At least, I've never heard him complain of it. I've washed my shirt and left it to dry pegged out in the little garden, and stole his pyjamas in the meantime. And do you know, it is strange, but they feel tight on me. Especially about my shoulders. The fabric is cutting into my arms, in fact. Strange. I've been a bit taller than him for a while now, but suppose now I must be wider too.

I hope that my feet don't get any bigger, because I do like borrowing his shoes. If ever there were a party of something of the likes, I would always borrow his shoes. He never minds at all. On the contrary, I think he quite likes it. He likes choosing for me, and selecting other pins and such to match for my cuffs and lapels. And I like wearing it all, because I fancy they're imbued by magic. I've never been as easy or as charming as my father. But, when I wear his shoes, suppose I that I can pretend. They're like props which make the act easier. I could readily take to centre stage, if only I were wearing my father's shoes.

I get through most turns with his handkerchiefs. They're like little fetishes. Talismans. And I can steal them quite easily and shove them down the front of my breastplate, so that I can call upon his powers whenever I might need them.

But suppose now, it is quite startling to realise that I have gotten bigger than him. Maybe the magic will not work for much longer now? I think perhaps my days are numbered. I've heard it said before that all men are shadows of their fathers. Perhaps one turn, I will have a son and he will be mine. Perhaps now, it is high time that I found my own house, and ate from my own kitchen, rather than scavenging from his.