There's something about Mr. Faust's room that reminds Mitile of the clinic. At first, it's a sensation he can't place—he's never inside long enough to ponder it, keenly aware of how uncomfortable Faust is with the presence of others and eager to evacuate. The sense of nostalgia lingers, unnoticed.

It's only once, when Mr. Faust allows Mitile to study in his room after fighting with Rutile, that Mitile truly makes note of how the room smells. Underlying the thick aroma of dust, old paper, and incense he finds himself recognizing medicinal ingredients: aloe, turmeric, chamomile, lavender. There are more that he doesn't recognize by name but by scent alone, and he finds his eyes darting along the surfaces of the room, trying to pinpoint their location. He wants to ask about them, to learn their names.

For some reason, Dr. Figaro would never tell him what they were called. "When you're older," he'd said, and brushed off Mitile's curiosity with a wave of his hand. He kept them shuttered in high, heavy boxes within the clinic, their smells drifting down over him as he slept uneasily in his second bed.

They must be dangerous, right? That's why Dr. Figaro wouldn't tell him... But if they're so dangerous, isn't it better for him to know what they're called? How to avoid them? To properly use them?

Mr. Faust's face takes on a strange expression when Mitile tells him this. There is something sad and confused in his eyes, a frustration biting at his lip. But in the end, he shakes his head. "I can't tell you. I'm sorry."