The following years of my childhood were not as easygoing as the time when I was a baby.
I was finally allowed to ask questions—endless questions—and through them I slowly filled the gaps in my vocabulary and corrected my broken grammar.
Unknown to me at the time, this was part of a quiet plan my parents, John and Elina, had agreed upon. As they felt they were getting closer to their goal, they believed this was the best time for me to begin learning about my family and the world around us.
They were careful, though. They couldn't rush my young mind or force any kind of ideology on me, so they chose to move slowly, introducing only things they thought might interest me. They started with where we lived. That was how I learned the name of my village—Wortham.
It was one of the many villages under the jurisdiction of a minor noble, who in turn answered to a distant kingdom.
Even though I could tell they wanted to say more, they always held back. For safety reasons, they said.
