The spider creeps closer, dragging its meal behind. Moira counts its eyes again. Seven. The spider's the only thing that has reality. It's realer than she is, right now. She's already on her way out--has been since the burns, really. She tries to breathe, but the wrappings are so tight, and the weight on her chest is so heavy.

They thought of it as a game, these dusty old men. Tease the dim, pretty little poppet with bits of magic to keep her dazzled and quiet. They’d never realized how much I had actually understood until I’d raised my head from my work and pulled back my hair so they could see my eye, see that I’d received the curse of knowledge. Then they were frightened, and rightly so.