I had planned to clean the house today, and roast a duck slowly in my oven. Some of the local children come by each week, uninvited, to see if I will tell them stories from my library, and of course I do, concealing as much real learning as I can in stories of adventure. This week I thought to seal the compact, and make it a regular event. Dripping duck in warm bread, by my reckoning, should have made that easier. Now it will spoil—although I suppose, if I am successful, I can simply wave my hand and have duck from the pure firmament, though that seems like cheating. Christ, at least, had the good manners to multiply loaves and fishes, rather than conjure them from air. Well, perhaps I shall speak to the duck and make it fresh again, though always careful not to push too hard and bring it once again to life.