Lost, without a hand to hold. Lizzie slowly sidled her fingers into the palm of Elder Barnes. He placed both hands on her soul bumps, feeling the hairy base of each above the fine stitch work, and the subtle movement below the skin. This act of passive acceptance of his touch was a necessary part of being his student.

"Tell me again of the Biclops." she asked. His fingers moved away from her head, more quickly than customary, forgetting to reciprocate. She understood the snub. He was not letting her feel his own soul flaps. He was angry.

"The Biclops was born away from our care. Its soul was laid bare for several hours before we could secure the flaps. Later, when we performed the rite, too much soul had escaped. It… He… had forbidden knowledge. The soul flaps were opened revealing that which only God should know."

Lizzie squeezed the elder's arm. Challenging Acceptance. This she knew, the gesture said. "When did the Biclops rip open his flaps again? He did, didn't he. Why did it matter, when others have done so, even accidentally, and not lost their souls?"

"Heresies are spared those of us who are cleansed at birth. The Biclops gained something, or rather stole it, in those first fateful hours."

Barnes tapped His charge's temple lightly. The sign of ceasation. Thankfully, she accepted his call to end this lesson with good grace. It would not be so easy next time, he mused as her steps echoed away. Even banished, the Biclops' influence was disruptive.