"It's getting late."

"Indeed." I didn't look up, my eyes still scouring across the typed pages before me, trying to locate another error.

"You best go get him then. I've only just had that painting in the hallway restored."

I got up with a heavy sigh and put down my pen. I looked over at Edgar just once before I left the room. He was wearing khaki slacks and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his forearms submerged in the soapy water. The washing up was done and put away and he was busy shaping multi coloured strands of wool into felt balls of varying sizes. His short brown hair stuck up at the back and I longed to go to him, wrap my arms around him and nuzzle the exposed nape of his neck.

But I didn't, I turned on my heel and left. I found our young charge in the upstairs lounge. The fire was blazing in the grate and he was asleep on the antique Chesterfield. I had never really liked the sofa, though the blood red colour was nice. Time was once when Byron curled up on the sofa wouldn't take up half of it, now his skinny body lay along the back of it, his legs scrunched up and one arm dangling off the end. I lent over and shook his shoulder gently. He murmured, almost mewling, big brown doe eyes with long lashes blinking in the light. Byron was a pretty sort of kid, slim and willow like with a fine face and a shock of ice blond hair that was in a constant state of disarray.

"Eliot?" he murmured as I put an arm underneath him and lifted him into a sitting position. I had to remind myself, again, that Byron was no longer a scared child of six as he had been when he first came to us. He was almost eighteen now, and the hard muscles against my arm proved that.

"Time for bed kiddo," I said.

His usually smooth brow furrowed and he stood. Byron was almost my height now and he stretched, his shirt riding up to give a slice of hollow stomach. He looked for the clock.

This was our nightly ritual. Every now and again we'd leave things too late and while usually I'd be able to control him, sometimes I wouldn't. Hence the newly repaired painting. Byron always feels guilty in the morning when he sees what damage he's caused, not the least the time when I came to wake him with eleven stitches in my face. But it's not his fault.

I walked with him through the house and down the dark stone stairs, past the cellar and down into the basement... The basement has a solid steel door two inches thick, fitted with four dead bolts with heavy duty padlocks and two regular barrel locks, top and bottom. It's open right now but it won't be soon. Inside the basement is divided into two sections. We are standing in the smaller of these. There is nothing here but a small wooden stool. The two areas are divided by bars. That side is the cage side. The bars are thick and close set and the door is heavily bolted. In the cell is an old rather decrepit looking bed and a heap of blankets. On the floor was Byron's dinner, an uncooked leg of beef. Edgar must have brought it down while I was getting Byron.

He walked into the cage and I shut the door behind him and began to lock it while he stripped off his clothes. He handed them to me through the bars and ran a pale hand over his washboard stomach with a heavy sigh. He knew the form he wore would vanish soon. I went to the bars and kissed his cheek goodnight.

"See you in the morning Byron."

"Goodnight Eliot."

Taking his clothes with me, I locked the main basement door behind me, and as I ascended into the main house the screams and the growling began. I shut the wooden door at the top of the stairs and the noise of Byron's suffering was trapped as well.

I finish rolling the last of the felt balls between my hands, rinse it and set it on the drying rack over the big blue painted Aga along with its fellows. I feels good to have a job done, even though there is still so much to be done before I finish this piece. That what I love about art, there is always more to do. Still drying my hands I walk over to Eliot's mess of papers of the table. Usually he writes in his study, but now I see that he is editing, massive amounts of text annotated with a red biro. I try and read in between his scribbles but I can't make head or tail of anything this far through a plot, so I abandon the task. I hang the hand towel on the Aga rail and leave the clean flagstone kitchen just in time to see Eliot going up the stairs with Byron's clothes in his hands. I follow him up at a distance, my footsteps heavily muffled by the thick pile carpet.

I stop outside our room and lean against the door jamb, as he disappears into Byron's room to put away his clothes. I can watch him from here.

His long ebony ponytail falls over his shoulder as he bends over to pick something up off the floor, bare feet, jeans and a white t-shirt. He stops in Byron's doorway and I smile at him. His face is grim and his jet black eyes are downcast. Slowly he comes toward me and I wrap my arms around him as he buries his face in my shoulder. I can feel his hot tears through the material of my shirt.

"Hush love," I say, ever so softly, as I raise a hand to stroke his hair.

He lifts his face and looks at me, three inches taller, not that it matters.

"It's just so..."

"Unfair." I finish for him and he nods painfully, "I know Eliot but there is nothing else we can do for him."

The worst part of Byron's condition is that sometimes he can control it, but we don't know when that is or for how long he'll be able to manage, so we can't leave him in his room where he could destroy everything, including himself or us. He's home schooled, but it's not like he doesn't have any friends. There are a whole host of people from all over the globe who he talks to on his laptop and his group of closest friends who arrive here every Sunday for a long rambling role playing session. Despite everything he is a happy young man and he seems to bear us no grudge for imposing such drastic but essential measures. The biggest problem for Byron is the fact that he will never be able to live alone, not even when he is a true adult.