At last she spoke, “My name is Anawin. I am the valla. I am the keeper of secrets. I am the teller of truths. I speak for the Wyrd, the three goddesses of fate. I speak for past, for present, for future. What is it that you wish to know?”

A psychologist might have termed it presque vu—the sense people sometimes get that something amazing is about to happen—but my name for it was much more humble: a harmony.

Where I was wont to ſeeke the honey Bee, / Working her formall rowmes in Wexen frame: / The grieſlie Todeſtoole growne there mought I ſe / And loathed Paddocks lording on the ſame. Where I was wont to seek the honey bee, / Working her formal rooms in waxen frame: / The grisly toadstool grown there might I see / And loathed paddocks lording on the same.

[S]he had expected the worst ever since Drusilla had deliberately tried to unsex herself by refusing to feel any natural grief at the death in battle not only of her affianced husband but of her own father …