Fakir shrugs.

The barrier between himself and his thoughts is fading; and Duck wants to see. Fakir moves into the center of the hall and tries the battements tendus again, this time raising his arms in perfect curves. If he dances long enough, hard enough, maybe Fakir will find the perfect blankness he experienced on the third day of his vigil.

But he can't reach it. Drosselmeyer, his thoughts whisper. Drosselmeyer used my writing to kill.