“No papers today?” Pradeep’s baritone and dark eyes are calming. He has a folded newspaper and the sign-in ledger on his desk, which is otherwise bare. The pincer tool hangs from a coat hook on the wall. There is nothing else that could be used as a weapon except the chair. Emma remembers Scott’s comment about Simon’s escape attempts; Pradeep must have instructions on what to do if Simon ever gets loose. Emma hopes neither she nor Pradeep is ever in a position to enact them.

“No papers,” she says. “Thank you.”

“I am right here, if you require.”

Emma nods, appreciative. She understands why Simon and Pradeep maintain a genteel truce. In a situation where true personal connection—say, between an inmate and his jailer—is impossible, the only recourse is the implied respect of professionalism. Pradeep is very good at maintaining an appropriate tone. It’s a social skill Emma has never quite mastered.

She’s still trying to figure out what tone to take when she finds herself standing in front of Simon’s cage.

He is sitting at his desk, consulting one of his books and writing on a piece of butcher paper, which has been neatly torn off the roll. Now he turns sideways in his bolted-down chair to face her.

“Emma.” His eyes give off cold sparks. His eyebrows are dark slashes against the paleness of his skin, his white hair. His mouth is slightly open; she thinks of flies buzzing out, has to push the image aside.

“Hello, Simon.”

His beauty is like a lightning bolt: shocking and brilliant and terrifyingly wild. The radiance from the stained-glass windows gives him an almost ethereal glow. Emma reminds herself he is not a magical being, he is a boy of flesh and blood. His cheekbones are sharp and high, his skin smooth—how does he shave?

He smiles. “So we’re on a first-name basis at last. What a relief. Being called Mr. Gutmunsson makes me feel like an octogenarian.”

Emma plunges straight in. “If we’re being informal—your questionnaire answers pissed me off.”

He throws his hands up, turns back to his books. “And now we’ve lost civility altogether.”

“After our last interview, I figure we can skip the pleasantries.”

He adds another note to his paper. “A personal acquaintance is no excuse for abandoning courtesy. How have you been, Simon? Thank you, Emma, I’ve been very well. It’s the small details that lubricate our daily interactions.”

“But courtesy can be a type of mask as well. Don’t you get sick of people being polite to you?”

“If you’d like to witness people in their more natural state, come live in an asylum for a while. Tell me afterward whether you think good manners are a social unguent.”

Emma checks herself, realizes she’s being aggressive because she’s afraid. He is a human boy, she reminds herself. A human boy, whose sister loves him. An isolated boy, who gets bored, and probably lonely. A smart boy, who likes using big words because… because he’s showing off? Is Simon trying to impress her?