Under the able guidance of practiced hands, contrived with the meticulous tools of an artisan's craft, a sleek and glistering object slowly formed. Beside the oak-topped worktable, an attentive gaze followed every motion, memorizing the precision of each unique movement gleaned of their rapt observation.

"Deceit is a necessary tool," uttered the dark-haired artificer, marking his progeny with a detached flick of cold, soulless eyes. "Dexterity of mind, a shrewd and duplicitous conscience -- as essential to survival as these, your tangible instruments of trade."

A tightness gripped the watcher's chest as that methodical voice fractured the near silence; deep within, the erratic thump of a fast-beating heart declaring a world of instinctive reaction that failed to manifest in the pale visage above. A disciplined nod moved her head in fractional measurement, dry lips mouthing an unheard response.

The inky darkness of a later hour hid the subtle strokes of a damp cloth swept over a thin-faced child's brow; a soothing touch halted now and again by the piteous, half-strangled cries expelled from his tortured slumbering. When morning crept through the lilac-curtained window pane it found two urchin forms crumpled on the bed, hands locked fast together.