WashJuliet puts her hand to my face. "Stop," she says, "listen." We are quiet, and the voices filter up through the floor, Marco and Jacobo. "They're fighting."
They are moving around downstairs; they are pacing from room to room, feet falling heavy to gently shake the house. Their voices are murmurs and shouts, and someone pounds a table. Jacobo is in the hallway, shouts "homunculi!", and it slips across the banister to come upward towards us.
Marco is at the foot of the stairs too, now, and his voice climbs the stairs easily:
"It is not I that make them. They themselves make them!"
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