( They're hundreds, he supposes, or at the very least three. They've been overcome by visitors as if they're ants squirming, everywhere he turns and when he means to hide in his little alcove by the looming mouth of the fireplace, there's always the foot of one, or the shadow of the other. Life's difficult when you've not crossed into adolescence.

This one, he remembers him, yes. He'd meant — wasn't alone, they were three thinking it — to put pebbles in his shoes this morning. Only, he woke too early for it, and now there's sand and stone in the boy's pocket, chirping and knocking, and he stills it with a tight cupped hand when he sees the man come.

...taller, close. Can't be they're all a hundred of them this tall. And he's a do — ohhhhhh, but he's stepping back from this one. There's needles and cough syrups and all the wrong sorts of troubles with doctors. )

...I haven't got illnesses. ( No, ma'am Mariol's stubborn about their etiquettes, can't be skipping. ) Please. And, um. Thank you. How d'you do. Sir. Sir doctor. Haven't got illnesses, though. Just... off with the morning news.

( This here envelope of handwritten notes circulated through the belly of the Mouse House, from one rich man to the next. )