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"Um," said Merroth, not sure how to answer. He had never thought about it before, and no one had ever asked. The music teachers praised the results and offered their learned input on his work, but never questioned what made him create it. It was a bit like asking how numbers worked. "Sometimes I use math." This was a stupid answer, because he always used math. The musical notations in his head were of a mathematical nature. When he listened to Casia, he heard numbers, but he also heard and saw numbers in everything he encountered provided his mind was working right. "I mean, sometimes I derive the notations from mathematical algorithms and stuff."

This was probably not the most entertaining answer Merroth could have given, but at least there was some kernel of truth in it. Had he been given some time to prepare an answer to the question, Merroth would have come up with a grandiose explanation involving a mixture of genius and inspiration, a great speech on how he found his motivation deep in his beautiful soul. It would have been a complete fabrication. Next time anyone asked him that question or one similar, he'd have the speech all worked out.

Merroth immediately ceased destroying Mr. Etoh's filing system. Was she trying to set him up for something? "Is this something about me coming from a cabbage?" he said suspiciously, correspondingly paranoid look on his face. He wasn't ashamed of his origins, and if she was going to make a point of it, he'd turn that point on its head somehow.

Merroth had seen and experienced a lot in his short life and quickly realized what Casia was thinking. Their classmates had put him in the exact same situation nearly half a dozen times already. There was a time Merroth would have reacted to this situation with fear and anger and gone on the attack just to try and protect himself. That was a response he had learned from Generys. But watching a little blonde girl panic in response to the idea her classmates were bullying her dredged up completely different feelings now. It reminded Merroth too much of himself, and of Emma.

He had witnessed Emma become fully and truly paranoid only once so far and it was one of those memories he wished would disappear into the pit of his stomach and never come back. He quickly slid off the desk and put his hands up nonthreateningly. "Whoa whoa whoa! There's nobody here but you and me! It's just us!" Almost verbatim Boston's words to Emma.

It was a hard question to answer, ony Merroth had been faced with several times, and each time he seemed to find a different answer. "How can anyone trust anyone?" said Merroth. He moved to the chair next to hers and sat down. The sheet music was of less importance than a girl who reminded him of himself. "At some point you just have to try and hope when they see you for who you are, they won't hate you like you hate..."

He almost said "like you hate yourself," but stopped himself and quickly reached for his handkerchief to offer it to her. On some level, he sincerely hoped he wasn't right about his theory that every hated themselves and went through life trying to find a reason not to. On the other hand, all his evidence so far pointed towards that conclusion.

Merroth was so preoccupied beating himself up for being so damn obvious that he almost missed Casia's response. "Nobody's ever themselves," he said darkly, "we're all just playing a role in the universe. If you can tell me whether the real person is the one out on stage with the other players or the one in the dressing room, I'll... Well, I'll give you all my allowance money."

"I like it when you sing," said Merroth, a distant look in his eyes, and for a moment he was somewhere else entirely, on the beach looking at the ocean, maybe, or remembering a conversation with someone who wasn't there. He shook himself out of it. "Anyway, I've no idea what good a recording of this would do me, as I've made rather much a bigger mess of it than you have. Unless you're implying I'd bootleg your performances, but dad says artistic endeavors ought to be accessible to all and the creators justly compensated for their contribution to the public benefit." The same went for scientific endeavors, which was how Merroth made most of his allowance money.

Merroth put his head in his hand a moment, eyes narrowing in study once more. "You think too much," he said, and suddenly knew what he would call her. His face split into a grin. "I know what you are, siren girl. You're a false alarm. Because you're always thinking there's something bad going on."

All things considered, it was a pretty decent nickname, and much nicer than most of the other ones Merroth had given people -- Rainbow Vomit, p***s Fingers, and Glow-in-the-Dork.

Merroth wasn't bothered by that assessment. It fit him quite well, and if he had realized Casia had confused rithm with rhythm, he would have found it even more appropriate. What did bother him was the revelation she had felt shoved around different homes. The smile disappeared from his face and it felt like one of his hearts skipped a beat. "You've been in different homes?"

Though some of their classmates had taken notice, no one had mentioned it to Merroth. He might have been able to figure it out if he'd been paying attention. The change of last name, the mention of guardians, but the idea simply eluded him. He had been too preoccupied. Maybe on some level he had not wanted to confront the idea and had been ignoring the signs, too. Now that it was out there in the open there was nowhere for him to hide.