The girl.

I suppose it is inevitable that my writing touch upon her. And it was with great effort that I avoided mentioning her up until this point. But what do I have to say about my ward? I would like to think that my lack of acknowledgment of her has spoken volumes already.

Does the blame rest with her or that damned woman? Chicken or the egg, there. One hypothesis I have conceived in my hours of solitude, holed up in my study with nothing but a quill, an inkwell and a ream of paper, is that they are possibly the same entity. The physical likeness is there, certainly. The girl disavows any knowledge of Amalthaea, though.

Regardless, I keep our lessons brief and to the point. As I am for all rights bound to this imprisonment for the time being, I have upheld a personal policy of work-to-rule. As she (both of us, rather) struggled through I admit that I have felt something close to pride in her progress. This of course is offset by her abysmal, embarrassing, unmitigatable failures. I do confess as well that despite her being my single pupil and ward that I possess only a rudimentary understanding of the girl.

I must keep my view fixed on the straight on narrow. Escape is my priority. And freedom from this cursed half-life. This unlife.

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