"Knocking myself out would be an undesirable outcome," hums Bella, fetching shaved coconut from the fridge.

"I think so," Bella agrees, looking at the recipe.

Bella starts scooping measuring cups into containers. In the presence of the cake deity, she even bothers to sift the flour.

Hilary busies herself at the stove with butter, sugar, and the mysteries of the cosmos. Alice pours things and fetches other things and lends his supply of muscle power to the task of stirring. All in all, it is a very cheerful kitchen.

When the cake's several layers are each in the oven, and the various frostings are in their bowls and in the piping bag ready for application, Bella leans with a happy sigh against the counter. "Well," she says. "That's that, for the next thirty to thirty-five minutes."

"Job well done," Hilary agrees. "And would you look at that," she opens a drawer with one hand and picks up a pot off the stove with the other, "leftover caramel and three spoons. Dig in, kids."

Bella laughs gleefully and takes a spoon - and a big scraping of caramel from the bowl, too.

"I don't think I ever got to the point of seeing your favorite book," Bella remarks to Alice. "I became distracted by that other book and then we wandered off."

He swallows his current mouthful of caramel and says, "That is very true! Wanna go give it another shot? With less falling this time?"

"Yes, I'll have to be more careful given the state of your floor," chuckles Bella. She licks her spoon clean and puts it in the dishwasher.

"Yep." He sticks his spoon in his mouth again, pulls it out nearly free of caramel, drops it in the dishwasher, waves to Hilary, and leads the way out of the kitchen.

Bella follows him up to his room, trying to lope like she hasn't spent her life fearing falling.

Bella plucks the book out of his hand and opens it up. "What's it about?" she asks.

There are always those who ask, what is it all about? For those who need to ask, for those who need points sharply made, who need to know "where it's at," this:

"The mass of men serve the state thus, not as men mainly, but as machines, with their bodies. They are the standing army, and the militia, jailors, constables, posse comitatus, etc. In most cases there is no free exercise whatever of the judgment or of the moral sense; but they put themselves on a level with wood and earth and stones; and wooden men can perhaps be manufactured that will serve the purposes as well. Such command no more respect than men of straw or a lump of dirt. They have the same sort of worth only as horses and dogs.
Yet such as these even are commonly esteemed good citizens. Others as most legislators, politicians, lawyers, ministers, and office-holders serve the state chiefly with their heads; and, as they rarely make any moral distinctions, they are as likely to serve the Devil, without intending it, as God. A very few, as heroes, patriots, martyrs, reformers in the great sense, and men, serve the state with their consciences also, and so necessarily resist it for the most part; and they are commonly treated as enemies by it."

Henry David Thoreau, "Civil Disobedience"

Bella giggles. "Can I borrow this?"

"Go for it! If there's a book that is my brain, it's that book," says Alice.

"I don't know what I'd say if I had to pick a book to represent my brain," Bella says. "I like old literary fiction, but it doesn't mirror me, it's just fun to read."

"You have, like, a hundred books that represent your brain," Alice points out, perching on a corner of his bed. "Literally."

"Oh. I guess that's perfectly true," laughs Bella. "For some reason that didn't occur to me. They're in the background."

She sits on his bed, safely away from the bricks. "I don't think putting another barrier in front of it would even help. It's magicked to let me in."