It’s all motion. The way you lower yourself down and scoop up Cath, who bounds into your arms as heavy as the bones of hills; the way thanks and farewells tumble out of your mouth, the kind of roll of syllable on syllable that simply means an acknowledgement of an elder for their service and a respect for their age; the running. It is not the first time you have run with a cat pressed close against you; it is the first time that you have carried one of the Beasts of Britain.

And you are not strong enough. Not you, Constance, a lesser child of greater powers. Your ancestors strode over hills and raised up the high stones; where their missiles fell, they became mountain-scree and river-bed. But you? You cannot run all the way to Southhaven. Not in time.

This is a judgment upon you, daughter of giants. That you are the twilight of your people.

[Constance attempts to perform Great Labor and makes a [b]6[/b] of it.]