Ariadne had raised three luminous yellow-red cones of ash in her tripods. She'd left the veil behind and knelt down with her back to me, before the shrine; and though I could make out none of her words for her whispering under the sounds of the night, her voice was equally flow of ululation and chant and passionate prayer.  Her head and torso rocked gently with certain phrases and I knew she was beating her breast.  What were the words? What was it like, her pure communion with The Powers?  The low, passionate murmur of the solitary voice, the fist beating in time with the heart, beating - my life was only the God's desire to know her, to honor her....
Maybe Ariadne was praying for me, for help: this plan depended on the right consort to help see it through .
I heard her tears, and cursed what I had done.  My sister a widow before a Queen. In the spring.  A figure whose beauty awakens pain of loss, of betrayal and bereavement : a wonder that shines despite some crime, despite some violation.