What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. “Now you must go,” she said firmly. Her sister’s words were true. ” She shook her head deliberately, hopelessly. "In wine there is truth. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead.
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