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His fingers couldn't quite grasp the pencil like others could. Instead, they twisted and weaved about the wooden stick as though it were something that needed a firm grip. Perhaps, somewhere deep within himself, he thought the opportunity to write might run from him, but Miss Adelia could have alleviated that worry easily enough.

The scummy orphan before her had become a prince overnight. Adopted into a land so supple and filled with opportunity that the child would want for nothing had he only the need to ask for it.

Of course, the asking was the most difficult aspect for him.

His dirty brown eyes were sunken into his frail frame and his lips were still chapped from the long days spent baking in the sun. His hands were scrawny little toothpicks attached to lengths of skin and bone...arms. And how he slumped in his chair bewildered Adelia every time she took a moment to stare at his meager frame.

How on earth had they managed to keep clothes on the half-dead creature when he was skinnier than a hanger?

She fixed her glasses that hung idly at the tip of her nose and breathed in deep. It was, above all, her job to care for the boy's education and cultural enrichment. And as she reminded herself of her duties her back stood all the straighter. She had been summoned by the noble Dubark Family.

And she would certainly not let them down.