"I'm seventeen," volunteers Etty after a silence.

"I don't remember how old I am."

"Do you know what year you were born?"

She shakes her head.

"It's 1878 now."

Nona shrugs.

"Transforming isn't as bad as it could be, and being a swan isn't terrible except that I can't talk - or write," Etty comments idly. "I didn't figure out how to fly today, but I might tomorrow."

"I hope you do," she says. "I bet it's fun."

"I bet it is too."

Nona grins.

"I guess you don't turn into any kind of bird."

She shakes her head.

"What do you do all day," wonders Etty, "if you can't go into the library anymore?"

"Eat. Sleep. Cry. Climb things. Fall off of them. Tidy the castle. Fuck myself."

Etty permits herself a blink at that last.

"What?"

"I don't usually hear people talking about that."

"You asked me what I do all day. I do a lot of that."

"I suppose you do have to occupy yourself somehow." She chews her lip. "...Is the bit about catching fire in the library just you, or could I go in?"

"I don't know. But if you catch fire, you might not live through it, so I wouldn't try it if I were you."

"So us swan types are only eternally youthful, and not invulnerable," concludes Etty.

"He could've changed something after the prince, but if he did, I don't know about it."

"I'll only try it if I become so bored or desperate as to risk immolation, then."

"Okay."

"People say burning is the worst death. Are they right?" asks Etty.