Oh, Constance, you couldn't refuse, could you? Not when the thought of riding and resting your feet tempted you so sweetly. You are mortal as are the rest of us, after all. So you let the knight swing you up onto her horse, both legs swung to one side, so that you could ride side-saddle as the knight led the horse out, and weren't you supposed to be going home now? If only, if only. Fate makes fools of us all as the wheel turns.

So here you are, underneath the stars and the expanse of heaven's road, and when you look up into the face of that oak-strong knight, your face is painted in moonlight and limned with the gleam of stone. And you almost don't recognize your own voice: "I am listening, Robena," you say, and your words are thin as gossamer. "Speak. Please."