You were born into this. From the first day they swaddled you in scarlet silk blankets, put one of their own into the crib, and stole you crying away into the black stillness of the forest, you have been in a school of previously unknown purpose.

Your eyes, once childish and full of wonder, have matured all too quickly. They’ve roamed books not written to be read, murals not drawn to be viewed; they’ve watched macabre puppet theatres that portray the studied arts of deception.

Your fingers, thick and clumsy compared to theirs, have been trained to work the skeins of falsehood and lies made fabric. In the glow of the phosphorescent toadstool circle the needles flicker and glitter like shooting stars.