They told her she was a good girl, and as long as she continued to be a good girl she would be taken care of and treasured all her life.

They told her she was a monster, and warned their children to stay away from her.

They told her she was free, and the world was going to be fair to her from now on, just like it was to everybody else.

“Quit dreaming,” said the old man. “The world is not fair.”

The old man had the uncanny ability to induce vivid lucid memories in the girl’s mind, and when he conjured up upsetting images of separation and a cold, dark dungeon, the very air around her thinned and flames burst forth and charred the girl’s skin.

The old man shook his head.

“Let’s start by learning not to hurt ourselves,” he said.

He was there because they had offered the girl a chance to use the training grounds, and assigned him to her for assistance, as it is said he specialized in manifestations relating to emotions.

They had offered the boy the chance as well, but he declined, for he had become fascinated by the study of potions, and how the sound of crystal clear bells could melt at a moment’s notice into a slow, symphonic adagio, or turn again into a sizzling charcoal ball when mixed or consumed. He was interested in the theory behind manifestations as well, but for the first time his ears failed him, for the music of the record books did not tell him what he wished to learn.

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On the third try the girl broke down in tears, and an angry flurry of snow buried the stone floors and crested her and the old man’s hair in a fine white powder. She had agreed to this only because they promised she could visit the west wing, where the boy lived, more frequently once she had proved a “reasonable degree of safety.” But she had never thought that it would be so hard, or so physically painful, to get ahold of her own feelings.

“Why me?” cried she, who had never had to reign in herself for as long as she lived. “Why is it that I alone must suffer and affect the world around me, when all others are fine?”

“Child, all people affect the world around them,” said the old man. “It is only that you are more obvious.”

“It is not fair,” cried the girl, and her soul flickered like lightning.

“All men must go through a labyrinth to slay the beast,” said the old man. “And the path there is so elaborate and convoluted that many never find their way at all.” He regarded the girl, whose soul crackled and snapped with electricity like a whiplash. “But you, my child, are born in the belly of the beast.” He sighed. “Consider it a blessing… or a curse.”

“How could this be a blessing,” said the girl, as a storm of dust began to brew about her.

“You are never lost,” said the old man, and as he gazed as her there was a sort of sadness, a melancholy that drifted off of him and settled slowly on the ground.

At last the girl’s soul quieted, and she raised her head to look at the old man through her tear-streaked face.

“And you?” she asked. “Have you slain your beast?”

The old man was silent, and said no more.