They tell me, Galatea, you are doing the Maker's work.

( She traces shapes in the air, illustrating nothing in particular, her eyes nearly a decade away, a little girl full of piss and vinegar and faith, unshakeable even now. If she had not been so, would she have been as easy to mold? If she had not been so, would she have ever left? )

The Chantry plays the game. Keeps secrets. Takes secrets. The mothers told me that they know who deserves, so I know because they know—

( A laugh, quiet. )

I don't think the Maker was with me, after all, in those rooms. I will be sure, next time!

( quieter; more serene: ) I will be sure.

( Sometimes, the light in the darkness is a fire you lit. )