She brings him upstairs into a small room like a graduate student's cubicle or a tiny office. Her attempt to export her tangled mind onto the wall is only just begun, with seven index cards arranged in a rough circle. Some of them are packed tight with close handwriting, others have only a few words, and one is blank. There is a gap for a Ninth one.

Her journal, wrapped in that disturbing yellowish leather, is here too.

She reaches for the card pinned with a large purple pin--one of the more brief ones--and unsticks it from the wall. "This is a theorem for--I believe--a genetic chimerism. Flesh magic is not my preference," she says with a moue of disgust.