Stendhal keeps to no faction and works The Yard as a Poodle who is stylish and inventive, treating every day like a small festival. At sunset Stendhal sits by the swamp shrine and hums to a rusted key that fits no door anyone has found until the wind returns the favor. Even the glassbirds quiet for a moment when Stendhal walks under the leaning tree. Stendhal thinks the right life is one good walk near the flooded market halls, repeated until it stops feeling ordinary.