"Self-pity, along with a bit of hatred for color. As you might imagine, I had a surplus of them both." But the statue is small -- tiny, even. And nothing about Pyotr's manner indicates that he uprooted anymore than that; even his beaten down, miserable, shamefaced appearance is worlds more animated than the nothingness he wore in Efrain's opera house. The emperor really does have new clothes now, and he's fallen to his knees under their weight.

"I didn't intend anything for them at all," he mutters, circling back to her earlier point. "Before the opera house, I used to throw them away in the woods, or toss them over a cliff. Farkhad was the first one I actually wanted to keep." He gestures over to the far corner of the room, where the pieces of the memorial statue lie on the floor in a heap. "I suppose he'll never be finished now."