A Count
Master Rub looks askance, nods his ears, hears: Others can't invest in changelings or something imperceptibly slow while he just flat out doesn't believe in numbers. Still he carries a fold-up abacus and scales in his sewn-on pocket. Certainty has weight enough to make beads and arms shake, and so does doubt. If he leans back, crosses one barbed knee over the other, head against a watch-laden rucksack, and eats enough -- which is only -- apples today, his belly will fill in a matter of hours and he will grow, his cheeks round as full as the fruit in his eyes, his hips, his navel. He can read all day -- Acker and Carter -- and scratch the line of knobs in a line down the center of his scalp, rip the pocket out, and sleep, dreaming only -- enough -- of what he had eaten that day.