Ari looks around guiltily. His guilt (this time) wasn't one of those bothersome, mysterious guilts that every so often bobs up for air from its deeply hidden, seaweed-munching life and melts one of your more carefree conversational sentences to a quivering, listless halt. No, he felt guilty for two specific reasons: the first being that he was expressly ordered to keep the pen hidden, and he was gazing at it with the curious adoration of certain breeds of well-fed sheepdogs; and the second being that he didn't want to wake Isa up when he was midway through abandoning him to the horrifying comfort of scholarly pursuits.
That is the hardest part. Ari is a staunch advocate for cheery adventures (which were promised), but those usually involve others. Of anybody anywhere, Isa needs a cheery adventure in his life. Ari is gazing at Isa with constipated unhappiness. Isa is quivering delicately, like a leaf snagged by a rock, and muttering something indeterminable. Ari leans closer to make it out, whatever it may be, which is this: "lignite truffles for beach wood... not my half horse... which pilfering vixen witch?" and so forth. Ari soon becomes bored of such nonsense. Isa must be speaking quite vehemently in his dream, where everything is louder and brighter and in liquid state. Isa is, in fact, negotiating the sale of an elderly turnip while being chased by creatures whose only consistent features are general sinisterness and that they keep on chasing him.
Ari tiptoes off, leaving Isa to his tedious education and snuffling mutterings.
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