Constance looks to Sir Harold. Then she looks to him again; she opens her eyes in a way she had not before and [i]looks[/i] at him. And she sees; she witnesses; she accepts. That is one of the roles of the priestess, after all; she is a mediator not just between the supernatural and the ordinary, but between the varied selves that surround each and every one, waiting for their moment to be born. She reaches out and takes his hand, her skin like alabaster, his rough and weathered by sun and sleet. The pressure is gentle, but her arm forms the arc of a bridge that could stand a thousand years and never fall. "I cannot forgive you," she says. "But I can sit with you until the pain is gone. You will forever be an oathbreaker, but... thank you, Sir Harold. For reminding me that that is not [i]all[/i] you will ever be. I cannot wash it white as snow, but I can tell you know that you are in the process of becoming something new. The oak's scars do not fully heal, and yet the leaves grow green. It is only that-- she must [i]want[/i]. She must want to shed her skin and be new." Like the snake. Like the year. Like a god. Like a king, in the days before Man ruled Britain. Like the snake, which ate the herb called immortality. And that is why there is Death, and Pellinore will one day submit and rest and sigh no more. And that, too, is why Constance will wear scales and molts in the garden. For the serpent is sacred in its theft.