She was full of pains and aches, but overriding that was an emptiness that was like a drug that dulled her senses. Things weren’t as sharp; she could not summon warmth—

Priscilla reached out, unwillingly accepting the new because the past was totally gone; she put the shift on, and stood slowly. She was cold, but here was a little bit of food, and—

The man was staring pointedly at her breasts. She put her head high, felt the ache in the back of her neck, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

Nameless. Dead. A nothing—No longer Moonhawk. No right to be bare-breasted in public. No right to call the Goddess Mother…

Awkwardly, unnaturally, she buttoned the shift across her bruised and chafed breasts, felt its hem rub on the raw bruises on her thighs.

There was an explosion of wings behind her, and the bird that had been poised there flew out the door and to the left.

“Out, damn you!” snapped the guard. “Look at this mess we gotta clean up! By the Goddess’ good foot, get out!”

Numbly, she gathered together a few more of the nuts. Food. A little bit of food.

The man pushed at her roughly.

“Get out! You’re not wanted. You’re dead!”

She ran then, ran out the door and to the left, ignoring the open door to the right that led upramp into the beggars courtyard.

“I’m not,” she said to the wall as she climbed the stairs, “I’m not dead.”

She stopped at the door to MaidenHall, waiting for the tingle of acceptance at the crossboard in the stone floor—

There was none.

There was nothing. No quiet gong sounding the advent of a Maiden, no warning brangle of alarm bells, no roar of tarfire from the pot over the door.

Nothing.

She stepped through, then and touched the naming stone with a bare foot.

Nothing again. Moonhawk’s name was not intoned by the four guard coyotes, long-frozen by spell: nor did they raise hackles and charge. She was there, Nameless.