Something about Marinero's nightly pilgrimages to his husband's grave has a profound effect on Clear from the moment she first sees him up there. Asking around leads her to confirmation of what she already knows: that this is usual for him, that this is his habit. And it's sad, but . . . also it isn't? Paying tribute to someone long gone. In this case, it seems like such a peaceful, good thing.

That's why, one evening when he arrives at Marcos's grave, Clear is there, standing a respectful distance away but obviously waiting for him. She's holding a sculpture made of scrap, small and sturdy. Inscribed at the base of the metal flowers is the word MARCOS.

If he'll allow it, she'll give it to him — silently. She doesn't speak Animalian and has no magic to do so, but she also doesn't want to speak Common here, considering.