I can still hear him – my father – yelling at my mother. She was crying, and when I saw her later she was bruised and bleeding, and it is my fault. My father, who rarely even acknowledges my existence, much less asks me to sit and chat for a bit, asked me how I was enjoying my training. Now, I know I’m not supposed to mention that my mother is sneaking me off to school when she can, and that we practice in secret the letters and numbers. I know I am supposed to be a pleasuring gift to some king or other. I accept that.