The children of Keramzin demand dreadful stories, and Mother Alina always obliges: she tells of sharp-toothed volcra, of kings undone; she rasps of children drowned and beauties scarred, of monsters felled unjustly thanks to a single man's greed.

She is so very talented at making one's skin crawl that they expect only to be pleasantly terrified when they ask for a tale of the wickedest man that ever lived; but Mother Alina only grows still, and studies her hands for a time.

"Once," she begins at last, "there was a boy who grew to manhood very lonely, indeed."