Did you know? Not one of these houses contains a gene-loom. Not one of these houses contains anything that could, on a good day, resemble a gene-loom in potentia. But they [i]could[/i]. That’s the trick with houses, and walls; you can put things in them, and you won’t know what’s inside until you look. 

Dolce stands outside each house. He does not open the door; they are all locked, and the craftsman’s hands are clever to their work. He stands. And he waits. He casts his eyes to the earth. He does not think about what will be in this house. And when the craftsman emerges again, he falls in beside him without so much as a how-do-you-do. 

On the forty-seventh house, the craftsman nicks his hand on a splinter. Dolce binds the shallow cut with soft, careful fingers, and at last he speaks. His tone is soft as his wool. And nothing like the acid in his stomach.

“She would see no love in this. There would be no love worth seeing there. When you make something, sir, something that’s important to you, it’s your hands that make it. Would it be the same if you gave someone else the plans? Let them do it all for you? Could they love it like you do?” 

And what abuse would you heap upon them when they inevitably fell short? When their hearts found songs of their own? This, he does not say. It is not necessary to say. The point stands just fine without it.

“I’ve spent much of my life in the kitchens, but in all my time, every true love I’ve seen has needed tending to. The tending [i]was[/i] the love.” He pulls the bandage tight, but not too tight. He brushes it clean of dirt and debris. He pats it, gently. “Not some busywork to give to someone else.”