I do not know how much I weigh.

There are no scales in the house: there are no scales in the house meant for us. There is a scale in the kitchen that we use for baking, but I cannot put to much on it before it begins to complain, spinning false tales on its little dial. Marco keeps an old postage scale on his desk, with a shined copper platter and small lead baubles that slide on tiny rods marked with progress. That one weighs even less, and it would be more impractical besides. I do not think Marco has seen fit to have a scale, to determine how heavy we are.

We have eaten well, here, at Marco's table. The meals are laden with good things, and I have known them to be bad for me, if I am idle. We are not shy at the table. We are not idle, either. With the weather cooler, we walk for much of what we need, sometimes long and heavy paths. We stoke the fires well within us to temper the chill. We eat bean soups laced with salty ham and glossy spinach, and wipe the bowls clean with bread from the oven which is now almost always ready to warm us. We are packing on solidity for the winter.

Juliet shifts, and begins to snore gently. She is lighter than I.