He swung his head around. Nobody. Not a soul. They were allowed to sleep in on Sundays. No brutal rousing from the Assistants. Most likely they were just rising or shuffling in pairs and groups to The Grotto for hot oatmeal and toast. His belly growled. The thing in the bush made a minuscule noise, and Gertrude stooped, studied the leaves, and with a sudden decision thrust his hand inside. He grappled for a moment, yanked the thing out, and gasped.
He held in his hand a miniature replica of himself, had he chosen to dress in squirrel pelt, which he had not done since he was a boy. It kicked its legs furiously, trying to shake free. Before he could utter a word, however, a shout from the fields wrested his attention.
“Gertrude?”
Zorn.
The homunculus took advantage of his distraction and
