He nearly gives up on the whole idea when Rutile flinches back, because if someone's scared of touch, they'll never say yes to it. Only then Rutile does, and he brightens the way any child would when given permission to do something usually forbidden. He reaches out near reverentially and runs his fingers along one of Rutile's golden ones.

"Made of human," he repeats absently. He's never heard of that before, but it's good enough for him. Rutile's much more interesting, because they do feel like stone, which he guesses makes rutile a kind of stone. His eyes glimmer with curiosity; living statues are never among any of the stories Grandmother tells.

He remembers some of his earlier panic and pulls his hand back. "I tried," he says. "I tried a lot of different names, but they all hurt. Maybe someone else has to name me. Will you do it?"