In all his fantasies, Zechariah had not considered one very, very possible notion: that Not-Richard would not be as delighted in person as his letters implied. That he would see their nature as something to be ashamed of, rather than as something others should be ashamed for hating.

Crane froze, and Zechariah withdrew his hand with a guarded look. He had not felt the shame as strongly as some, certainly – but he had still felt it enough to flee his homeland and hide it from his family. Still felt it like Crane’s gloved fingers were soaked in shame, shame, shame.

“There are more of us than you think,” Zechariah said, smiling but flat.

More than he thought, but none of them wrote like Crane.