“I peered at his writing, but I could make nothing of it. Then I saw why, and my soul chilled like marble. His writing was running left to right. Not the words in reverse order, but the letter themselves. All of it. It was mirror writing- to be read by the Devil.”

“Ho there, scribe. I see that you write well enough. Can you also read?''Obviously you cannot, boy,' he replied. 'For if you were able to read, you would see that my sign' -he pointed to a piece of paper pinned to the wall above his head - 'says: Reading and Writing - Careful and Discreet- the Sinistro Scribe.”

“I must tell you this, Maggie. Your letters are my lifeline. Your threat to stop them terrified me. Never stop writing to me, I implore you.”

“This was not completely true. I had run so fast that I still had a stitch in my side, but I did not want to be left out of their confraternity of guilt.”

“How had it come about that these particular designs were chosen as our letters? Who decreed what sound would accompany each shape? And how was it decided the manner they would come together to form a word? 'Why is this so?' I demanded to know.”

“The scribe was a strict teacher and he did not accept anything less than perfect...Like a mother sensing the baby quickening within her, suddenly, to me, the letters were no longer hostile and unwieldly. I had command of them, with my head and with my hand...The words struck, as clear and as pure as a bell peal on a winter morning.”

“The Maestro spoke again. "When we are not, at what point do we become?" I could not reply. For I had grasped no shape of his thoughts. I understood neither what he said nor his intent behind it.”