[i]”In Avalon the golden leaves will never fade;
in Avalon we’ll eat apples under the shade.
In Avalon there is no death and no decay;
in Avalon alone we will not lose our way.
In Avalon the giants still stand proud and tall;
in Avalon there is no Adam and no Fall.”[/i]

Constance’s voice is high and clear, like silver bells. And yet, for all that she sings of that impossible forever summer, her mien is frozen: she sings as someone standing without, in the snow and the dark, eyes straining as she looks out to sea and sees the glimmer on the horizon, impossibly far and yet close enough to hurt. As her voice fades away, Sir Liana stills her fingers on the strings of the lyre.

“Troy. Rome. London. What are the cities of man, my lady? They wither and fade, consumed even as they think themselves in their first flower. And still the way is shut; still there is no route to Avalon. So tell me, if you can,” she announces, suddenly, to the assembled room: “what hope is left to us?”

At least she’s talking. Isn’t that right, Tristan? And making pronouncements of doom— why, keep that up, and she’ll be back to her old self in no time, probably. She just needs to get all of the ominous declarations out of her humors.