[ It's quickly apparent that Lynette can only say so much. No surprise; he knows by now that anyone under Arlecchino's heel will do their best not to squirm, lest she dig in even further. But the words do hold some insight, a small look into what Lyney might be faced with once he's free from Meropide. Lyney loves with his whole heart; it is, in a way, a grave he digs with his own hands, an easy pathway for anyone looking to hurt him. Do anything to him and he'll survive. But take that which he cares for, and he'll crumble--or otherwise never err again.

His order comes to him as he ruminates on what Lynette says. By now his appetite has waned--it's insidious, this leveraging of what Lyney cares for most, this total shared obedience toward someone who would snatch away that which they hold dear. Wriothesley's parents were similarly brutal, but hardly prone to mind games of this sort. His own punishments come to mind, muffled, the edges worn off of them by time. ]

To be honest, I had hoped I might eventually speak with your Father. [ These requests never seem to go well, so he doesn't put it forward as one: rather, more like a passing fancy. He starts in on his meal in small bites, swallowing before he continues. ] He writes to her, as you know, but for some parents of incarcerated children, letters are scarcely enough.