I feel soiled. You can’t call me a man at this point; that’s too generous a title. I am a golem, constructed out of flaming bags of shit and garbage. On the other side of the room, Carina sits next to Mara Bancroft. I can feel her throbbing with embarrassment and anger—her mood generates a heat that can be felt from the other side of Fitz’s Den. It’s blistering my skin, giving me radiation poisoning, singeing my nerve endings, and yet no one else seems affected by it. No one else seems to have even noticed.
