CHAPTER 9

POV - Azra'il

There is a specific form of boredom that only occurs when you have already memorised every available book, practised every spell the current body can sustain without detonating, and catalogued every crack pattern in the sitting room ceiling. It is ancestral boredom, the kind that accumulates weight from life to life until it becomes a chronic condition of the soul.

I was in that boredom.

The obvious solution, when one is bored and a perfectly available twin brother is nearby, is to irritate him.

Not out of malice. Out of scientific necessity.

Rudeus was at the sitting room table with the magic book open, his index finger sliding beneath the lines with the closed concentration of someone attempting to memorise something important. I was seated on the other side of the table, chin resting on my hand, watching him with the calm interest of an entomologist studying a particularly predictable beetle.

Then I moved my finger and produced a small water sphere the size of a grape, floating in the air between us.

Rudeus did not look up.

I moved the sphere slowly towards his side.

He turned the page.

I moved the sphere a little further.

He looked up with the expression of someone who already knows what they are going to find but had hoped to be wrong. He found the sphere floating ten centimetres from his nose.

"No," he said.

"No what?"

"Whatever you are planning. No."

"I am simply practising flow control," I said, with the innocence of a child genuinely baffled by the accusation. "It is a legitimate exercise."

"You are floating water in my face while I study."

"Near your face. Prepositions matter."

Rudeus looked at me with the expression of someone who has a response and is deciding whether it is worth the effort. He decided it was. "In my past life I had a dream," he said, in the flat tone of someone reporting a historical fact. "To have a little sister."

I looked at him.

"It wasn't like this," he added.

I paused. I processed the information with the care it deserved. Then I looked at him with the expression of someone arriving at a conclusion they would have preferred not to reach.

"You wanted an anime little sister," I said.

Rudeus opened his mouth.

"The kind who says *onii-chan*," I continued, with the surgical precision of someone identifying a rare species. "In a high-pitched voice. Who runs to the door when you come home. Who blushes when you do anything remotely considerate." I tilted my head. "Probably with pigtails and the personality of a devoted puppy."

"I didn't—"

"You wanted a slice-of-life sister with ambiguously romantic undertones that Japanese censorship conveniently overlooks." I looked at the sphere floating between us. "And the universe gave you me."

Rudeus stared at me with the expression of someone who had begun a confession without adequately calculating where it was going.

"The universe has a rather sadistic sense of humour," he said at last, with the resignation of someone who has arrived at a philosophical conclusion against their own will.

"I agree entirely." I let the sphere drift two more centimetres in his direction. "And you are a repugnant siscon, you chubby little pervert."

"I am not a siscon."

"You had a specific and detailed dream about the sister archetype you wished to have. That has a name."

"That is just—"

"It has a name in Japanese, in fact," I said. "You know the name."

Rudeus closed the book with the heavy resignation of a battle lost before it had begun. "I hate you."

"No you don't." The sphere drifted. "You simply cannot cope with precise analyses of your own character."

[For the record, the analysis was in fact precise.]

〈Thank you, Eos.〉

[That was not a compliment.]

〈I know. Even so.〉

"What do you want?" said Rudeus, in the tone of someone capitulating with what remains of their dignity.

"Intellectually stimulating company," I said. "Or anything above zero, which at this particular moment would represent a considerable improvement."

〈Eos, current level of intellectual stimulus in the environment.〉

[Calculating. The water sphere you have been floating for the past sixteen minutes is currently the most dynamic object in this room. That says something about the general state of affairs.]

〈Thank you. Most helpful.〉

"You could read one of the other books," said Rudeus, in the tone of someone offering a reasonable solution and hoping it will be accepted so he can return to his own book in peace.

"I have already read them all."

"All five."

"Twice each. The history of magic book has a factual error in the third chapter that irritates me every time I think about it." I let the sphere dissipate and rested my chin on the table with the monumental tedium of someone awaiting the end of a geological era. "The magic circles book is the most interesting of the five, but it has considerable structural gaps that irritate me more than the original boredom did."

Rudeus looked at me for a moment. "You could go and play."

"Play."

"It is what children do."

"It is what children do," I agreed. "I, however, have been a child enough times to know the novelty passes quickly." I looked at him. "You could debate the structural errors in the magic circles book with me."

"No."

"It would be educational."

"For you, not for me."

"That is debatable."

Rudeus opened the book again with the determination of someone reasserting a territorial position. I watched him for a few seconds, calculating the next approach, when Zenith's voice came from the kitchen with the specific tone of someone distributing domestic tasks with a gentleness that does not accept refusal.

"Rudy! Azra'il! Could you water the garden plants for me?"

Rudeus closed the book sharply.

The change was subtle, but I had learnt to read Rudeus with the precision of someone who had spent months cataloguing microexpressions. His shoulders rose half a centimetre. His jaw tensed slightly. His eyes went to the window overlooking the garden and stayed there for one second longer than necessary before looking away.

It was the same pattern as always when the outside was mentioned as a required destination.

〈Analysis of Rudeus's behaviour in relation to outdoor space over the past several weeks.〉

[Consistent pattern identified. Specimen Rudeus avoids the exterior whenever possible. When compelled by routine, he remains close to the entrance of the house, keeps his body slightly angled inward, and returns inside before necessary. Average duration of voluntary time in the garden: approximately four minutes. When accompanied by an adult, this increases to eight. Heart rate during these periods suggests active discomfort.]

〈This has the look of a previous-life trauma.〉

[Probably. He mentioned that he spent most of his time in his room. He never specified why.]

I had asked, once, indirectly. He had said he stayed home because he liked it. There was a pause after that response which made it clear that was not the complete story, but I had not pressed. Everyone has their reasons. Their wounds. Things that are not yet ready to be said aloud.

When he was ready, I would listen.

I would not promise gentle words, because that was not my nature. But I would listen.

"Come along," I said, rising from the chair with the naturalness of someone who had noticed nothing.

Rudeus looked at me. Then at the window. Then at me again.

"Come along," he repeated, in the tone of someone agreeing to something that carries more weight than the words suggest.

The Greyrat garden was modest with the honesty of something that exists for function rather than display: a few rows of herbs, flowers that Zenith tended with the dedication of someone who finds peace in things that grow slowly, and a metal watering can leaning against the exterior wall with the patience of an object accustomed to waiting.

Rudeus picked up the watering can. I picked up the second one that Zenith had placed there for when the children helped.

He watered the herbs with the efficiency of someone who wants to finish the task as quickly as possible. His shoulders remained slightly raised. His eyes went periodically to the stone garden wall, to the dirt path beyond it, to the space further out.

There was nothing threatening out there. It was a cultivated field and a quiet medieval village on a reasonable sunny day. But Rudeus's body had clearly not received that particular memorandum.

I watered Zenith's flowers with more calm than was necessary.

"This one is lemon balm," I said, pointing to one of the plants with the watering can. There was no specific reason to say so. I knew what it was. Rudeus probably did too. "Zenith plants quite a lot of it."

"She likes tea," said Rudeus, on automatic. Then he glanced at me sideways. "So do you. Which is suspicious."

"Tea is a civilised beverage."

"Tea is a little old lady's drink." He watered the next row. "In my past life I drank energy drinks at three in the morning playing video games."

"And look where that got you."

"It got me reincarnated in a world with magic."

"After being run over."

He was quiet for a moment. "The energy drinks had nothing to do with that."

"I never said they did." I finished Zenith's flowers and moved on to the herbs alongside. "But the fact that you are defending the energy drinks suggests some guilt in the subconscious."

Rudeus looked at me with the expression of someone who had realised too late that they had walked into a conversational trap without seeing the warning sign. "You are impossible."

"I am consistent," I corrected. "They are different things."

When Rudeus's watering can emptied, he stood still for a moment looking at the empty vessel with the expression of someone assessing whether there was justification for fetching more water or whether the task was sufficiently complete.

He decided it was complete.

When we went back in through the door, I noticed him exhale through his nose with the subtlety of someone who does not want the relief to be visible.

I did not remark on it.

[Five minutes concluded. Resuming normal recording.]

〈Thank you.〉

Two days after the garden, the house had that particular quality of afternoons without agenda: Zenith in the armchair sewing, Lilia in the kitchen with the discreet sounds of someone doing something that requires no supervision, Rudeus on the sitting room rug with the magic book open in his lap, and I at the dining table with Paul's shirt in front of me and the threads arranged alongside.

Paul was sitting beside me at the table, elbows resting on the surface and chin in his hands, watching my work with the concentrated attention of a man who does not understand the mechanism but recognises the result.

The situation had begun after he saw Zenith's shawl. Paul had stood looking at the embroidery for a time I classified as informatively long for a man who generally processed things in motion, and then he had gone to fetch the shirt. Not the worn shirt he usually used for work. The favourite one, the good-fabric white shirt he kept for occasions he considered worthy, and he had placed it before me with the mildly awkward formality of someone unaccustomed to asking for domestic favours. "Could you do one for me as well?"

It was a shirt that deserved the work. The fabric had a firm, consistent texture, receptive to thread in a way that ordinary cotton rarely was. I had chosen the grey tones with the care of someone working with material that does not easily forgive mistakes.

The rat's fur was taking shape in three tones, from darker along the back to almost white at the belly, with eyes I had mixed in black and a very dark gold that would only appear when the light caught them at the right angle.

"How do you do that?" asked Paul at last, with the direct sincerity of someone who does not have enough pride to pretend he is not impressed.

"With the threads and the needle," I said.

Paul looked at me. I continued embroidering.

"Zenith does needlework," he said, after a moment. "But not... like this."

"They are different techniques."

"It looks alive."

"It is not finished yet."

Paul was quiet for a time, watching with that particular attention of someone who lacks the vocabulary for what they are seeing but is trying to find a way to register it regardless. There was something disarming in the honesty of it. Paul Greyrat was many things I preferred not to catalogue in detail, but he was at least a man without intellectual pretension. He did not feign understanding of what he did not understand.

From the rug, Rudeus had imperceptibly lowered the book and was watching the scene sideways with the expression of someone witnessing something unexpected and not yet decided what he makes of it.

I finished the final stitch of the fur and assessed the result. Then I extended the shirt towards Paul.

He received it in both hands.

"Why a rat?" he asked.

I looked at him with the patience of someone about to explain something they consider obvious. "Greyrat," I said.

Paul blinked.

"Grey," I continued. "And rat."

There was one second of silence whilst the connection made its way through the necessary route inside his head. Then Paul brought his open hand down on the table with the physical satisfaction of a man who has understood something and needs the world to know it. "It's our name," he said, with the genuine enthusiasm of someone discovering something that had been in front of them the entire time.

"It is the family name," I confirmed.

Paul stood looking at the embroidered rat for a moment with the expression of someone revisiting their own existence from a new perspective. Then he smiled, that wide, unguarded smile that was his way of being happy without caring what it looked like, and reached out to ruffle my silver hair with the knuckles of his calloused fingers.

I let him do it without comment, which was, for the internal record, a considerable concession.

"I'll show Philip when I go to Roa," said Paul, with the anticipatory pride of someone already planning the audience's reaction.

I looked at him. "Philip?"

"A friend of mine in the city," said Paul, with the casualness of someone who does not consider further details necessary.

I filed the information away and did not press. Paul was the kind of man who shared information in the order that made sense to him, which was rarely the order that made sense to anyone else.

Rudeus had lowered the book slightly and was watching me sideways with the expression of someone who had also registered the name and reached the same conclusion that there were insufficient data for analysis.

"He'll definitely want one just like it," Paul repeated, returning to the rat with the unshakeable conviction of someone who does not consider the argument needs further support beyond his own enthusiasm.

I was putting away the remaining threads in the sewing box with the composure of someone who had completed a satisfying project and was ready for the next, when the knock at the door arrived.

Paul rose with the automatic reflex of a swordsman. Zenith looked up from her sewing. Rudeus closed the book in his lap with the attention of someone who had decided this is more interesting than the current page.

Then we all went to the door.

Outside stood a small figure with a bag too large for her size and a folded paper flyer in her hand. Dark blue hair falling over narrow shoulders. Eyes of the same shade, with that quality of depth that her young appearance entirely contradicted. She looked at Paul first, then at Zenith, then at Rudeus, and then her eyes found mine for a moment that lasted a slightly different length of time than the others.

I did not need her to introduce herself.

〈Eos.〉

[Physical characteristics consistent with high-longevity demonic races. Dark blue hair and eyes, atypical pigmentation for standard humans. Mana channels: developed, refined, with years of formal practice visible in the way she carries herself. She is a trained mage. She is carrying a flyer that is in all likelihood the advertisement that specimen Paul posted in Roa.]

〈So she came in response to the notice.〉

[Most probable conclusion, yes.]

I stayed where I was and waited.

"Good afternoon," she said, with the calibrated courtesy of someone who makes professional introductions frequently enough to have found the exact tone between friendly and efficient. She extended the flyer towards Paul. "My name is Roxy Migurdia. I saw the notice in Roa about seeking a magic tutor. I have come to introduce myself."

Paul took the flyer with the expression of someone who recognises his own document but is still processing the person who brought it. His eyes moved over Roxy's figure with the automatic assessment of a swordsman measuring an unfamiliar interlocutor, and then settled on an expression I classified as genuine confusion attempting to disguise itself as courtesy.

Zenith had the smile of someone who wants to offer a warm welcome, but is also doing mental arithmetic that is not quite adding up.

Rudeus was looking at Roxy with an attention that began at the blue hair, moved down to her height, came back up to her face, and then stayed there with an expression I recognised with the specific discomfort of someone who has seen that expression before.

[Pupil dilation pattern and heart rate of specimen Rudeus consistent with non-academic interest.]

〈Eos, he is three years old.〉

[His soul is not.]

〈That is not a defence. That is a more serious accusation.〉

I looked at Rudeus with the flattest expression in my repertoire. He must have felt the weight of it, because he turned his head in my direction.

He found my expression.

He looked away immediately, at the speed of someone caught doing something who has chosen silent denial as their defensive strategy.

〈Chubby little pervert.〉

[Consistent with the documented history.]

"You are..." Paul began, choosing his words with an unusual care for him. "You are very young to be a magic tutor."

Roxy did not blink. It was clearly a remark she had received before. "I am of the Migurd race," she said, with the patience of someone who explains this regularly. "Our longevity is considerably greater than that of humans. Appearance does not reflect experience."

Paul processed that. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven."

The silence that followed was the specific kind that occurs when information does not immediately fit the available visual category.

"Thirty-seven," repeated Paul, in the tone of someone checking that they heard correctly.

"Thirty-seven," confirmed Roxy, with the unshakeable serenity of someone who has had this conversation enough times to have lost the capacity to be unsettled by it.

〈Thirty-seven years old with the appearance of an adolescent.〉

[Am I to interpret that as empathy, or as solidarity between an old soul and an inadequate body?]

〈Both. They are not mutually exclusive.〉

Zenith had assumed the role of hostess with her customary genuine warmth, inviting Roxy inside with the hospitality of someone receiving a person into their home rather than merely a contracted service. Paul held the door with the expression of a man who had decided to file away the age question and focus on what was verifiable.

Roxy came in.

Then her eyes went to us.

I was near the table and Rudeus was slightly behind me with the book under his arm.

"These are the pupils?" she asked, with the neutral tone of a professional assessing the situation before forming an opinion.

"They are," said Paul, with the involuntary pride of a father who cannot quite suppress it even when he is trying to be casual. "Rudeus and Azra'il. Twins."

Roxy looked at Rudeus. Then at me. Her eyes stayed a few seconds longer on mine than on Rudeus's.

"How old are they?" she asked, in the tone of someone asking a question whose answer they already suspect.

"Three," said Zenith. "Four in a few months."

Roxy's face did nothing dramatic. It was the face of a professional. But there was in her eyes that particular quality of someone quietly updating their working hypothesis from "prodigious children" to "parents who believe their children are prodigious," which is an entirely different category with entirely different implications.

[She believes she is going to spend the next several years teaching the magical alphabet to three-year-olds whilst their parents watch convinced they are witnessing geniuses.]

〈A reasonable conclusion given the context.〉

[It will be interesting to see when that conclusion changes.]

〈Very interesting indeed.〉

"Three years old," repeated Roxy, with the unshakeable composure of a woman who had accepted difficult assignments before and survived them. "Very well. We can start with the basics."

"They already know a few things," said Zenith, in her mildly proud tone as always.

"Of course," said Roxy, with the professional agreement of someone who knows that "a few things" in three-year-olds most likely means reproducing adult gestures without understanding the mechanism.

I looked at Rudeus.

Rudeus looked at me.

There was in his gaze that silent communication that two reincarnates develop when they have shared a loft long enough: 'she thinks we are ordinary.'

I answered with the equivalent look: 'for now.'

Roxy had turned back to Zenith and was asking about the available study space, the children's routine, the materials they already had. She was well-organised.

I activated my eyes at a low level for a few seconds whilst she gestured.

〈Well-developed channels. Above-average mana reserves by local standards. Excellent control, the level of refinement consistent with years of formal practice. She is genuinely competent. Very good.〉

I deactivated them. I still felt a faint tingling behind my eyes whenever I activated them in this body. I still needed to develop that further.

After a few minutes talking with Zenith and Paul about the practical details, Roxy turned to us with the posture of someone who had concluded the administrative portion and was ready for the real part.

"Could we go outside?" she said, in the tone of a professional opening an initial assessment. "I would like to see what you can already do."

Paul nodded with the pre-emptive pride of a father. Zenith smiled. Rudeus and I looked at each other.

He wore that particular expression I had learnt to recognise. The discomfort of someone whose body decides of its own accord that outside is a place it would rather avoid, regardless of what the rational mind is arguing at that moment.

I did not remark on it. I simply followed Roxy out to the courtyard.

[Heart rate of specimen Rudeus slightly elevated. Pattern consistent with exposure to the outdoor environment.]

〈I know.〉

The afternoon sun was at a reasonable angle, the air carrying the scent of earth and Zenith's garden herbs. Roxy stood in the centre of the open space with the posture of someone who had done this many times under very varied conditions. Rudeus stayed close to the door, his body tilted slightly inward at that specific angle of someone who is technically outside but maintains a psychologically available escape route.

I stood halfway between the two of them.

"Before seeing what you can do," said Roxy, in the organised tone of a professional following an established method, "I am going to show you how magic works. The basics."

She raised her hand. She breathed in a controlled manner. And then she spoke the incantation with the clarity of someone who has repeated those words hundreds of times and still treats them with technical respect.

A water sphere appeared above her palm, larger and considerably more elaborate than what Rudeus and I usually produced. Its surface had that quality of something built with deliberate intention rather than discovered through trial and error.

[Clean execution. The incantation functions exactly as the theory you developed suggested: it organises the intention in a form that the mana channel processes with less resistance. Her efficiency is high for the chanted method. The control is excellent.]

〈She genuinely knows what she is doing.〉

Rudeus was looking at the sphere with the attention of someone who recognises something they have studied in theory and is seeing it for the first time in the practice of an experienced person. The discomfort of being outside had diminished by several degrees, replaced by the genuine concentration of someone who temporarily forgets the body when the mind finds something sufficiently interesting.

Roxy dissipated the sphere. "The incantation helps organise the mana flow," she explained, with the didactic manner of someone who has developed an efficient way of introducing the concept. "For beginners it is the standard method. With time and a great deal of practice, some mages manage to reduce its use." She looked at us with the expression of someone about to ask for something simple. "Now you try. It does not need to be anything complicated. I simply want to see the starting point."

Rudeus and I looked at each other.

His look communicated clearly: 'how much do we show?'

Mine replied: 'you first.'

He looked at Roxy. Then at his own hand. Then, with the expression of someone making a choice they know cannot be undone, he raised his open palm and said nothing.

A water sphere appeared above it. Stable. Clean. Without incantation. Without any preparatory gesture. It simply appeared.

Roxy looked at the sphere.

Then at Rudeus.

Then at the sphere again, with the different attention of someone verifying what their eyes are reporting because the brain has not yet fully accepted it.

"Did you use an incantation?" she asked, in the voice of someone asking a question whose answer they have already seen but need to confirm.

"No," said Rudeus.

Roxy was quiet.

It was not the silence of someone without an answer. It was the silence of an experienced professional processing a piece of information that simultaneously contradicts several pillars of what she knows about magical development, learning in stages, and what three-year-old children are physically capable of doing.

Magic without incantation was nearly impossible. Roxy knew that. It was a skill that very few ever achieved. It was categorically not something a three-year-old child did in their first demonstration for a tutor who had arrived twenty minutes ago.

"And you?" she said, turning her eyes to me with the redoubled attention of someone who no longer has any safe expectations.

A water sphere appeared above my palm. The same size as his at first glance, but with a visibly different density, heavier, more compressed, the surface carrying that particular quality of something being held with surgical precision rather than simply sustained.

Roxy looked at my sphere. Then at Rudeus's. Her eyes moved between the two with the attention of someone making an involuntary technical comparison, and I saw the precise moment she identified that this was not simply the same thing repeated twice.

"Without incantation," she said. It was still not a question. It was a realisation being spoken aloud in order to become real.

"Without incantation," I confirmed.

She continued looking at my sphere with that particular attention of a mage trying to understand what she was seeing in technical terms. The density was abnormal. The stability was abnormal. The complete absence of oscillation at the edges was abnormal.

I let her observe for a few seconds.

Then I directed a thread of intention towards the sphere, careful, calibrated, the kind that passes through the channel without making a sound, and lowered the temperature of the water from the inside outward.

The sphere froze. It simply transitioned from water to ice with the smoothness of something being controlled at every stage of the process, and remained there above my palm, a perfect sphere of ice catching the afternoon sun and casting a bluish reflection on my skin.

The silence that followed had physical weight.

Roxy was looking at the ice sphere with the expression of an experienced professional who has just witnessed something that simultaneously contradicts several pillars of what she knows about magical development, elemental progression, and what three-year-old children are physically capable of doing.

Beside me, Rudeus had completely forgotten the discomfort of being outside.

"When did you learn to make ice?" he said, in the voice of someone who has spent several days studying alongside his sister and has just discovered that his sister was withholding relevant information.

I looked at him with the most composed smile in my repertoire.

"I do considerably more than drink tea and pester you," I said.

Rudeus looked at me. Looked at the ice sphere. Came back to me with the particular expression of someone retroactively reviewing every recent conversation in the light of a new piece of information and arriving at uncomfortable conclusions about how many other things he probably does not know.

[Specimen Rudeus is actively processing the possibility that you have been holding back during all the practice sessions.]

〈A perfectly reasonable possibility.〉

Roxy exhaled slowly through her nose, in the particular manner of someone completely reorganising their work plan in real time.

"Magic without incantation," she said after a moment, in the tone of someone arriving at a conclusion they had not anticipated but accept because the evidence is shining in the sunlight before them. "Elemental temperature control at this level... The two of you. At three years old."

"Four in a few months," said Rudeus, on automatic, still looking at me sideways.

Roxy looked at him. Then at me. Then at the ice sphere I was still holding with the composure of someone waiting for a bus.

"Everything I believed about magical progression," she said, more to herself than to us, in the low voice of someone conducting an internal inventory that is producing unexpected results, "is going to need to be completely revised for this particular case."

Then she stood looking at the two of us for a moment. And then something happened that I had not calculated: her face opened.

It was not gradual. It was the kind of change that occurs when a person stops holding something they have been holding since they arrived, the professional mask not disappearing exactly, but becoming transparent enough to show what lay beneath. Roxy's eyes shone with that particular quality of someone who has spent years finding predictable work and has just discovered that this was not one of those situations.

"You two," she said, and there was in her voice an enthusiasm she was clearly making a moderate effort not to let overflow entirely, "are completely unlike any pupil I have ever had."

"Is that good or bad?" asked Rudeus, with the direct pragmatism of someone who wants the information without any dressing.

"It is extraordinary," said Roxy, with the conviction of someone who is not using the word as a courtesy. She looked at my hand where the ice sphere had been, then at Rudeus, then back at me. "Magic without incantation is already something very rare in adults with decades of training. Elemental temperature control at this level—" she stopped, reorganised, and when she continued there was in her something close to barely contained wonder. "I would need to see it to believe it."

Roxy had begun walking in a small circle with the energy of someone whose mind is working faster than the body can keep pace with, her hands moving slightly as she thought aloud. "I am going to have to rethink the entire structure of the lessons. The standard programme will not serve; you are already well past the starting point I had planned." She paused. "Well past." She stopped and looked at us with the expression of a researcher who has found a rare specimen and is trying to decide where to begin. "What else can you do?"

Rudeus and I looked at each other.

His look communicated: 'you and your conveniently timed ice sphere.'

Mine replied: 'you are welcome.'

"A few things," I said, to Roxy, with my customary economy of words.

Roxy looked at me with her eyes shining in a way I recognised from other lives on other faces. It was the look of someone who has just decided that the next several years are going to be considerably more interesting than they had planned.

"Excellent," she said. And this time the smile was entirely genuine. "Then let us begin."

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