Alphus walked into the room. He was still practically glowing from his small victory on the track.

  "This is all because of you, Greg," he said solemnly. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there. Thank you."

  "Yeah, yeah," I waved him off lazily. "You can't put a 'thank you' in your pocket, and you can't spread it on bread. You wasted your effort if you're not paying up."

  Alphus frowned. He pulled up a chair and sat directly across from me, adopting the posture of a strict schoolteacher.

  "Greg, you are ill-mannered, rude, and entirely too blunt," he stated.

  "And what do you want?" I snorted. "You want me to bend over backwards for you? Bow to every lamppost?"

  "No. I want you to behave... more decently."

  "Why?" I yawned. "Keep quiet when I shouldn't? Worry about what other people think of me? Care about thousands of stares that I don't give a damn about?"

  He fell silent, searching for an argument. And he found the perfect one.

  "Greg, you sit at the same table as the Princesses. You hang around them. Do you understand that your behavior reflects poorly on them? Their reputation suffers when they are seen with... you."

  I froze abruptly. Damn, I thought. He's actually right. Maybe people are looking at Alexia and Anna sideways because of me? I did not like that thought. It's one thing to be an outcast myself; it's entirely different to drag down the people who feed me pizza and scratch my head.

  "Alright," I grumbled. "Shoot. Teach me about life, 'White Cloud'."

  Alphus beamed and launched into his lecture: "First. When you meet someone, you add 'A pleasure to meet you' and ask how they are doing."

  "Pfft," I rolled my eyes. "I don't care how they're doing. I don't even care what their name is. Why lie?"

  "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" Alphus yelled. "Greg! And another thing: do not interrupt a person until they have finished their thought!"

  "Got it, got it, moving on—"

  "I WASN'T FINISHED YET!" he barked. "And you must always carry a handkerchief."

  "Why?" I put on my most clueless expression. "To wipe snot? That's what sleeves are for."

  "Gods above..." Alphus buried his face in his hand. "If the moment arises, and a lady cries or sneezes, you can offer her a clean handkerchief. It shows care."

  "Next," he continued. "Bows. You must bow slightly when greeting someone. You make a gesture with your hand like this... if you have a hat on, you tip it."

  "You look like a slave," I evaluated his gesture.

  "Greg, memorize the difference between a bow of respect and a bow of a slave. A slave bends his back, breaking himself. But when greeting, you simply incline your head slightly, maintaining your dignity. Keep your back straight!"

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  "And furthermore," he raised a finger. "You must never take a lady's hand first."

  "Why the hell not?" I asked, surprised. "What if she's falling?"

  "A lady must offer her hand herself, if she wishes. It is her choice."

  I scoffed. These rules seemed utterly superfluous to me, but at the same time... I heard his voice, and it felt like I was recalling old times. Other cycles. Cycles where this was the absolute norm.

  "On the street," Alphus went on, "a man always walks on the right, the woman on the left. The man walks on the dirtier side of the road so that any mud splashed by carriages hits him, not the lady's dress."

  "Logical," I nodded. "Accepted."

  "At the table, if possible, pull the chair out for the lady."

  "What, she can't do it herself?" I protested. "Are her arms broken?"

  "Greg!" Alphus looked at me reproachfully. "The devil is in the details. These little things are very pleasant. They set the atmosphere."

  A memory suddenly flared in my mind. "Details... Little things..." Yes, I remembered that. Someone had told me that exact thing thousands of years ago. And it really did work.

  "And finally, Greg," Alphus wrinkled his nose. "The most important thing. HYGIENE."

  "What's wrong with it?" I looked at my palms. "I wash my hands every day. Before I eat. Sometimes."

  "When was the last time you washed your entire body?" he asked bluntly.

  I thought about it. I started counting the days in my head. The day of the exam... the day with the dummy... the day I slept under the oak tree...

  "Probably... a week. Or a week and a half ago," I admitted honestly.

  "EXACTLY!" Alphus exclaimed, scooting his chair further away. "Your hair is as greasy as festival pancakes! Your breath stinks!"

  "My breath can't stink, I have self-cleaning magic... I think," I said uncertainly. But I caught my reflection in the window glass. My hair was hanging in greasy, matted clumps.

  And then, it hit me.

  "Now I know why Alexia hasn't been petting me as much lately..." I whispered in absolute horror. "She's just disgusted to touch this grease."

  I looked at Alphus with a profound new seriousness.

  "Wash your entire body at least three times a week, Greg!" he pleaded. "Or better yet, every day!"

  I completely forgot about this, I thought, springing up from the couch. This is way more important than etiquette. This is a matter of tactical tactile contact!

  "I'm hitting the showers!" I yelled, grabbing a towel. "And find me that damn handkerchief!"

  Thirty minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom. Clean once again. My skin was practically squeaking, and my hair was wet and smelled like... absolutely everything at once. I pulled on my usual, worn-out old pants and shirt.

  Suddenly, Alphus materialized in front of me again, like the ghost of a guilty conscience.

  "You're going to wear those rags?" he asked in horror.

  "Yeah," I said, adjusting my collar. "Very good clothes. Great ventilation."

  He looked at me with undisguised disgust. "Terrible. Your appearance was already terrible, but now you're clean and wearing rags. It's a dissonance, Greg."

  Right then, words from the Book bubbled up in my mind.

  "There's no accounting for taste," I declared with a philosophical air.

  Alphus immediately fell silent. He looked at me with newfound respect. "Where do you learn such smart phrases?"

  "Oh, you know," I waved it off. "Read it in a book once. A very old one."

  He started muttering it to himself: "There's no accounting for taste... Interesting words. Deep."

  Then he sniffed the air. His nose twitched. "Greg... What do you smell like? Is that 'Meadow Dew'? And 'Sea Breeze'? And... 'Dragon Root Oil'?!"

  "I don't know, Alphus," I admitted honestly. "There was a bunch of stuff lying around in the bathroom. Little jars, little bottles."

  He started screaming, clutching his head: "OH GODS, GREG! That one was for hair! That one is a skin conditioner! That one is a facial scrub! That one is foot cream! And that is hand lotion! That cost an absolute fortune!"

  "I don't know," I shrugged. "I just mixed it all together in my palm and washed myself. Same effect in the end. I'm clean, aren't I?"

  He looked at me, looking like he was ready to cry, but then he smiled and started laughing. "Alright, Greg. I forgive you. You're incorrigible."

  He walked over and scratched my wet hair. "Oh..." he drawled. "Now you can actually be touched. It's soft."

  It felt nice. Not the same as when Alexia does it—the magic there is different—but still nice. In a friendly way.