run to the ravine, and we remove the
stones which we have piled upon the iron
grill to hide it from the men. Each night, for
three hours, we are under the earth, alone.

We have stolen candles from the Home
of the Street Sweepers, we have stolen flints
and knives and paper, and we have brought
them to this place. We have stolen glass
vials and powders and acids from the Home
of the Scholars. Now we sit in the tunnel
for three hours each night and we study.
We melt strange metals, and we mix acids,
and we cut open the bodies of the animals
which we find in the City Cesspool. We have
built an oven of the bricks we gathered
in the streets. We burn the wood we find
in the ravine. The fire flickers in the
oven and blue shadows dance upon the walls,
and there is no sound of men to disturb us.

We have stolen manuscripts. This is a
great offense. Manuscripts are precious,
for our brothers in the Home of the Clerks
spend one year to copy one single script
in their clear handwriting. Manuscripts are
rare and they are kept in the Home of the
Scholars. So we sit under the earth and
we read the stolen scripts. Two years have
passed since we found this place. And in