I sat in the room behind my throne watching my little sister play. The tiny monster, Ghola, observed with rapt attention, her bleeding hands folded in her lap. Was it just me, or did it seem as if Ghola's constantly weeping blood had eased off when she became the self-appointed guardian of my little sister? With each passing day, she appeared to morph, to alter, as though the monstrous nature she had lived with for so long changed in response to her charge. Yes, she still wept ...