Aphes likes to consider before she writes anything with the good stuff. A poem comes to mind -- her mother's favourite. She dips her pen into the pot of royal blue ink and begins to write out the poem on her left arm. There is no need to rush today, so she practices her calligraphy.

Her lines are still a little squiggly -- but no one will know. By the time she dips the pen back into the ink, the words are disappearing. One by one, the letters inelegantly drawn on her skin fade away. She feels the ink seeping into her veins and capillaries. The geasa and spirits trapped within her body murmur.

She knows that she doesn't have to be so careful or exact with her inking. Most of her friends write the same things every morning. But Aphes likes to think that she can differentiate between the different sounds the geasa and spirits make. She likes to think that they make happy and appreciative sounds when she feeds them something new, especially with the good ink. Aphes can't afford it very often. Most of her friends don't think the geasa spirits notice any difference.

Aphes only gets through half the poem before her geasa and spirits become quiet again. She writes one last thing -- her command and obligation memorials -- and then puts away her ink and pen.