"I can't read them," Kadaj said, cutting Even off, his eyes fixed resolutely to the table once more. He breathed in deeply, and exhaled slowly, and then admitted, quietly, "I can't read."

He looked away from Even then, his mouth set in a frown. "I didn't really go to school," he said, his voice soft, and sad. He'd attended when he was little, on and off, but when his mother had been having a bad day she'd shut them both inside, barricaded the doors and windows, and screamed and hit him if he made too much noise. He'd only realised now that whatever she'd been trying to hide from might have been real, and not just her imagination, or her mental problems. "Kuja tried to teach me when he first found me but," Kadaj trailed off, glancing at Even out of the corner of one eye, "it was easier to memorise his recitals and pretend I was learning."