“Given! Don’t you choose?”

“I won’t discuss it with you now. Later, if there’s a way. We must get you strengthened! You must touch the moonlight!”

Priscilla stood then, knowing it was useless. She was slender—scrawny said some, until they saw her standing with Moonhawk’s aspect upon her—and fairly tall. But the moonlight was still a half-dozen or more elbow lengths over her head, and the slant of the wails made it impossible for her to climb that high.

She tried standing on the bench that was her bed, and that was too short, as well. And if she leaned the bench against the wall?

She tried it, willing tired muscles to push the heavy wood into place near the wall, and then tried to lean it—no. Logic showed it could not work: the bench would wedge itself in and there was no way she could stand on the end of it then….

She pushed the bench over; it fell with a crash, the low backpiece splintering noisily.

She stood in the darkness, naked and exhausted, sweat cooling rapidly on her body. She began to shiver and with it came an inner blackness so total—

“I have failed you, Moonhawk! I am too weak, too—” There was no sound, within or without. Whatever the watchers heard or thought was as hidden from her as Moonhawk.

“They will stone me, then, that’s all, and the circle will continue. Moonhawk can choose a better vessel and all will be well with the world.”

She said that and the words came back her and then struck her full force. She’d seen stonings twice and had been sickened by them; but now, to have the crowd after her?

There was no panic. She would hang herself, that’s all. She could use the empty lampholder to tie her hair to, tie it around her neck as well, and then jump from the bench and—

“Will you kill Moonhawk?” came the question.

“Never! Moonhawk lives!”

“Precisely.