Their voices slipped between her daughter Madeleine’s lips, silken and sweet, some high, some low. And the fire followed them, long ghost banners of it. It licked the tips of her fingers, rolled out across the table top, danced and pranced and spun out on every side. On the other side of the table, the fortune-teller shivered, her eyes fixed on her daughter’s face. “Fire”. No matter how she phrased the question, the answer was always the same. Fire. Fire for the fortune-teller and her associates. Fire for the pretty wife of the councilor, with her hunger for beauty and money and freedom from marriage. Fire for the complacent priests and the perfume-sellers; fire and pain and darkness. It reached its fine red fingers for the rakish comtesse in her web of plots, for the dashing duc with his hopes and hidden hatred, for the peerless marquise in her royal boudoir. It limned the slim silhouette of sweet Madeleine as she sat at her mother’s table to channel the angels, blue eyes blank and empty, fixed on nothingness. The future was full of fire and it would consume them all. It rolled and danced about the room, threw hot shadows across the vials and bottles, the jars of herbs and the heavy bound books. It ran its hands over the fortune-teller’s face, down her throat, closed its fingers about her, hot and heavy. She gasped and shuddered from it, breaking the spell.

Madeleine’s eyes snapped shut as her head dropped forward. The red light winked out, leaving the workroom pale in the inferior glow of the candles. For long moments the fortune-teller sat in silence, calming her breathing, swallowing down her fears. Fire and only fire. There was no way out for her, then: the angels had spoken. She must face that, head high, and make of it what she must. But Madeleine.... Rising, she went round the table to her daughter, who had slumped forward. Madeleine’s skin was soft with sleep, her breathing low and regular. The fortune-teller stroked back the long curls. The angels had touched her. The angels, surely, would want to save her, this vessel, this innocent through whom they worked? She patted the girl’s cheek and returned to her own seat. Opening one of the drawers of her work table, she took out three sheets of the finest paper.

She was not, perhaps, the most gifted of the diviners of Paris. There were others more apt with the arts of conjuring or the skillful manipulation of smoke and mirrors. But in the art of presentation, none surpassed her. Her bower was the most fragrant, her consulting room the most opulent and alluring, her person—if not by nature attractive—the cleanest and most reassuring. And then there was Madeleine, with her blue eyes and blonde curls and wide sweet smile; Madeleine, through whose soft pink lips the spirits spoke—angels, most certainly, for no demon could find foot-hold in such an innocent vessel. Madeleine brought the clients in, to sit on soft settles and hear the words of the otherworld. No matter that the words were often garbled or unclear. Her voice was soft and bell-toned and her face guileless. And her step-mother, the fortune-teller, was always on hand to offer explanations and translations alongside other, more practical services.

Fire on all sides. But not, the fortune-teller told herself, for Madeleine, the agent of angels. Dipping her quill into her purest ink, she bent her head and began to write.

The fortune-teller thought long and hard about these letters, to be delivered should anything befall her. She crafted each word with exquisite care. No outsider, reading one of them, must catch so much as a glimmer of what they contained: a warning, a threat, a wish. Under the seal of each she placed a strand of her thin grey hair, whispering words to the soft wax she placed over it. Her will. Her will. Her will be done.

“Your marquise wouldn’t like to hear you talk like that,” said Gilles, moving the nearest bottle out of easy reach.

“The marquise can dance on a sharpened spike.” Thaïs glared into the cup. “What was that? The contents of your pisspot? Give me another.”

“You don’t need it.” Gilles took the cup away and replaced it with an earthenware goblet which he half-filled with red wine. “Try this. The chevalier de Lionne sent me two barrels to clear his tab.”

The cabaret was situated on a low corner, where the Rue Servandoni met the Allée de St-Paul, in the damp undercroft of a print-shop. From outside there was nothing to distinguish it—no sign, no welcoming flambeau, only a short flight of stone steps and a rather battered door. It had no formal name: it was known simply as the bar de l’heure, from the great clock of the Église St-Paul opposite. It was seldom more than a quarter full. “Those who need us find us,” said Gilles, when customers asked. Thaïs had stumbled across it one day some three years earlier—quite literally, when her ankle gave way and she tumbled down the steps. The door had opened just quickly enough to conceal her from the young nobleman who had stepped, quite unexpectedly, out of the book-shop three doors down. Chances were he would not have been able to place her, but she did not like to take such chances. Not when one filled one’s pockets in the fashion she did.

Her employer knew Thaïs could read: that was part of her value to Madame. She had no idea, however, that Thaïs was one of those who supplied the print shop over the bar de l’heure with its steady stream of satires and filthy songs on courtiers, ministers, mistresses, and the king. Madame was rich and spoiled and expected her maids to be loyal.

Now, she sipped her wine and pulled a face. Too sweet and too thin, like the young women the chevalier preferred for his bed. Like Madeleine, the little witch who haunted too many of Thaïs’ dreams. Gilles picked up a cloth and began to polish a pewter tankard. He said, “Give it time to breathe. We’re all the better for a little breathing.”

She threw him a dusty look. He went on, “I take it your latest work was too hot for my neighbor?”

“He doesn’t want to offend too much.” She mimicked the mincing tones of the printer. “Not in the current climate, with La Reynie and his policemen hunting up trouble all over the city.”

“Ah.” Gilles set the tankard down and wiped imaginary dust from the top of the squat clay tablet mounted over the back of his bar. For any other man, it would have been a reach. Gilles was not any other man. He was the tallest man Thaïs had seen, taller even than the giant musketeer who went by the name Porthos. If La Reynie came here with his men, he’d have a real fight on his hands.

Not that La Reynie, the Lieutenant-General of the Paris Police, was remotely interested in cabarets, however odd. Or printshops, not right now. The word on police lips everywhere these days was “poison.”

Madeleine believed in angels. “As beautiful as your Madame,” she had whispered to Thaïs, on one of the visits Madame had paid to consult with her mother the fortune-teller and, through her, with Madeleine. Madeleine’s angels visited her regularly, at her mother’s command, and used her lips to speak to the elect, promising—or so the fortune-teller swore—every kind of benefit and earthly advancement. “Your Madame is blessed,” said Madeleine, who could not credit that angels might have truck with any but the good, the pure.

If angels spoke to her Madame, then Thaïs had no faith in angels—or else the angels who came to Madeleine were of that company no longer welcome in heaven. If Madeleine understood the questions Madame put, she, too, might be more ready to doubt. But Madeleine remembered nothing, once the angels settled upon her. It was her mother who called them down into residence, her mother who decoded the strange sweet words they spoke.

Angels. Demons. Or perhaps just Madeleine’s private madness. Thaïs neither knew nor cared overmuch. It was Madame’s gold that went to pay the fortune-teller, not hers, and Madame’s interests that the visits sought to serve. Now, Thais wriggled into her dress, tied her hair into a perfunctory knot and went downstairs in search of food.

Madeleine was waiting for her in an antechamber, nibbling on one of the dainty pastries rejected earlier by Madame. Her long pale hair fell forward over one shoulder in lustrous curls; her blue gaze examined the delicate porcelain plate from which she ate. If Madame knew she came here.... It was one thing to consult soothsayers in their Parisian lairs. It was quite another to admit them to the gilded precincts of Versailles. The king had no love for such creatures, whom he regarded as charlatans at best. And as for those who consulted them.... Not even Madame’s beauty and her long sojourn in his regard would help her if the king chose to believe her guilty of seeking to influence him through sorcery.

Madeleine looked up and every part of her face smiled as she saw Thaïs. Thaïs pressed her lips together, fighting the wave of pure delight that threatened to rise in her at the sight. She would not be softened by blue eyes and curls and that endless, guileless innocence. She plumped herself down at the table opposite Madeleine and grabbed a handful of pastries from the platter. “What are you doing here?”

“Maman sent me.” Madeleine’s voice was as sweet as her exterior. “She has sent a new lotion for Madame.”

“Madame won’t be pleased. She doesn’t like your mother sending people here.”

Madeleine’s lips drew down. She never seemed to know what to do with contradiction or complication. She looked back at the plate, small fingers playing with the remains of her pastry. Her mother, the old witch, would have told her to deliver the message personally, of course. Thaïs sighed. “Give it to me, then, and I’ll make sure Madame gets it.”

Madeleine looked up and once again that smile was written across her face. “I knew you’d help me.”

“Well.” Thaïs shrugged and held out her hand. “The lotion?”

“Oh!” Madeleine reached into the bodice of her dress and drew out a tiny phial. “Here it is.” Thaïs took it and tucked it into a pocket without looking.

She said, “You’d best be going, then.”

“Oh, but....” Another pout. “One of the other maids told me Madame was out. I had thought. . . .” Her fingers traced the bright borders of the plate.

It would not do. It would never do. The whole thing was hopeless, stupid. If they were caught.... Thaïs swallowed her last mouthful and stood. “Very well, then. Come on.”

It was her own fault, of course, for telling Madeleine about Madame’s lovely gowns and fine furnishings. The trouble was, Madeleine loved to hear of such things, and Thaïs loved to tell her of them and watch those blue eyes grow round with delight. And as to her promise to show them, should Madeleine ever visit the palace.... Foolishness, from start to finish, and all too like to draw upon her precisely the kind of attention she did not desire. They were bought with blood and lies, all those beautiful things: tricked or wheedled out of the king, who should know better than to squander his tax revenues on his spoiled mistress. Of course, Madeleine would never think of that. Madeleine saw only the prettiness.

Thaïs led Madeleine along the narrow back corridor that led to Madame’s boudoir. She listened carefully at the door before opening it and ushering them both inside. This was the heart of Madame’s lair, where she entertained the king and displayed herself to choice friends and rivals.

The room was a treasure-box of gilded wood and rich fabrics, mirrors and crystal, fine-turned and decorated furnishings, fine porcelain and gold and silver objets d’art. Madeleine’s breath caught and her mouth opened on a silent “Oh,” as she took in the Turkey carpet and the great carved bed, the heavy tapestries depicting goddess and nymphs at their sport, the silver candelabra and the great crystal chandelier. She put out a hand towards the nearest object, an inlaid cabinet, and drew it back, shaking. She said, “Madame lives like a queen.”

“Better than the queen.” Thaïs said. She took hold of the closest edge of the bed hangings and gave them a tug. “The queen has to make do with old cloth and dust. These are new.” They were crimson, these hangings, and richly damask: a whole village could have lived in comfort for a year on what they had cost. Thaïs herself had earned three times a month’s wages with a ballad written on what they witnessed every night.

Not that Madame knew about that, of course.

“So many pretty things,” Madeleine said. She had advanced into the center of the room. “I wish I was you, to see these every day.” There was a great portrait of Madame, dressed in a loose robe and with her hair unbound, hanging on the wall opposite the bed. “Madame is so beautiful.”

Madeleine would not think Madame so lovely if she saw her in a rage. But Thaïs did not say that. She picked up one of the silver-backed brushes from the dressing table, and said, “She knows how to make herself look well, I’ll grant you.” Crossing the room, she set her hands on Madeleine’s shoulders. “But your hair is lighter than hers, and longer, too. Sit down.” She gave Madeleine a little push, guiding her to a straight-backed chair. “Hers is coarse, these days, and her hairdresser has to help her with the color.” She tugged the cord from Madeleine’s hair and began to draw the brush through it. “You’d look much better than she does in most of her gowns.” Under her fingers, Madeleine’s hair was silk. Thaïs closed her eyes. She should not be doing this, if she was caught it would be her job, and worse.

“I wish I lived here, like you,” Madeleine said. “I’d love to look after all these things.”

Thaïs shook her head, opening her eyes. “It’s harder work than you think.”

“I’d like it. I could dust and wash and mend. I like to do all those. Much better than what Maman has me do.”

The angels, or whatever creatures it was that the fortune-teller conjured from those soft lips, that was not a safe profession, not in these days. Thaïs said, “I’ll speak to Madame. Perhaps she’ll have work for you. But your mother. . . .”

“I don’t like it,” Madeleine burst out. Under Thaïs’ hands, her neck was suddenly rigid. “It makes me feel dizzy and strange when Maman calls them. The voices make my throat hurt and when they leave, I have a headache. I don’t know what they make me say. I don’t like it. I want an ordinary life, like yours. To work for someone like Madame. Some day a husband and babies. But not the voices.”

La Reynie and his men listened to them all, accounts of spells cast to find treasure or secure the love of a desired person; descriptions of confused, semi-Christian rituals designed to make husbands less cruel, of fortune-telling sessions to uncover the death-dates of those gentlemen, of potions and magics designed to hasten those deaths. The stories spun out and out—black masses here, animal sacrifice there; aphrodisiacs and perfumes; abortifacients and skin creams. The names mentioned reached higher and higher, closer and closer to the king. Husbands began to look askance at wives, lovers at their mistresses. Highborn lords dismantled the alchemical equipment in their cellars and burnt their correspondence. Court ladies smiled too brightly at one another as they proclaimed that they, of course, had never had recourse to the perfumers and magicians of the city to aid complexions and love affairs. With each new revelation at Vincennes, La Reynie added another diviner to his public list and another aristocrat to the more private list he shared only with the king. With each new arrest, the blame spread further and further. The king ordered the creation of a special court to try the magicians and poisoners, the Chambre Ardente. Officers of the police force came by night to capture the fortune-teller’s associates. And, at last, one night, they came for her.

At first light the next day, her letters were delivered.

The first letter was carried to the doors of Madame de D___, a society beauty whose cousin was one of the officials of the Chambre Ardente, well-loved and well-connected at court. A maid brought the letter to her as she took her breakfast: she glanced at the seal, then waved a hand for the maid to throw it into the fire. Really, the audacity of those creatures. Chasing her for debts, no doubt. She was popular, she was young, her lover was one of the highest peers of the land. She was above debts and duns and those silly rumors about black magic. The king knew her. He would never permit her to be touched.

Within two weeks, she would follow the fortune-teller to Vincennes.

The recipient of the second letter was wiser, or perhaps more afraid. The Comtesse de S____ had once enjoyed the favor of the king, and she had never forgotten. In the long years that followed, she had made constant attempts to recapture it, with her charm, her wit, her beauty. With dark magic and poisons, said the prisoners at Vincennes.

Perhaps it was true. Before the letter was delivered, the comtesse was in her carriage, heading for the border. The letter lay forgotten on a marquetry table in her antechamber, gathering dust alongside bills and notes and billets doux, until her son swept the whole batch away and threw them out, months and months later.

The third letter came to Madame.

Mademoiselle de Fontanges’ health had been poor, this last week or two, despite her youth and the royal favor. Poor child, said Madame in public. But in private, where once she had raged, now she smiled a creamy smile.

It was, of course, mere coincidence that the new beloved’s health had begun to fail the very day that Madeleine had delivered the new lotion for Madame. Coincidence that Madame had had Thaïs take that same lotion, in a fine silver bottle, as a gracious gift from her to Mademoiselle de Fontanges.

Laying out garments for Madame to wear, Thaïs spotted the fortune-teller’s seal at once. Her eyes met Madame’s in the mirror. Madame frowned, and her fingers moved away to select another note instead. Thaïs went back to her task, unfolding and shaking out the fine silk. Did Madame suspect her hand in the never-ending stream of satires that were printed in the capital? Perhaps. Yet Madame must also know how much else Thaïs knew about her, after twelve years of service.

She was Madame’s confidential maid. That meant she was well-enough paid, relatively speaking, and trusted, up to a point. It did not mean she had to like Madame. A maid’s feelings were of little account, as long as she could maintain the appearance of loyalty and restrain her venality to petty things. She had never known why Madame had chosen her, out of all her servants, to be her companion on those furtive visits to the soothsayers and sorcerers of the capital. It had been an adventure at first, slipping through the streets in cloaks and hoods to watch odd women read the future in Madame’s palm, and recommend perfumes to tempt a king. But the perfumes had not worked for long. The king had a roving eye and little sense of loyalty, and Madame’s lovely figure lost some of its appeal through repeated childbearing. That was when the excursions grew darker and the rites performed became more desperate. Perfumes gave way to aphrodisiacs, while the courtiers watched and smirked and counted up the small humiliations endured by the fading favorite.

Madeleine would have pitied her. Madeleine was soft-hearted and foolish. Thaïs did not pity Madame. One could not pity such a woman. Madame could scent pity from a league away and uprooted it without mercy. It was not the king—bloated and selfish and arrogant—that held Thaïs, though many of her colleagues professed to love him. It was not the court, in all its vainglory. It was not even Paris, with its cabarets and bookshops and protests. Perhaps it was simply that she could think of nothing else to do.

Perhaps she was bound by Madame, complicit in her activities. She had said that, once, in her cups, to Gilles, who had looked at her, his eyes narrowed, and said nothing in return.

And then, there was Madeleine. A child when Thaïs first saw her, gazing round-eyed over the rim of a cup at her mother’s lovely visitor. She had been pretty even then: Madame had exclaimed over that, cupping the child’s face in her hand. Ten years ago, or more: it had not been until she reached puberty that the angels had first spoken through Madeleine.

She finished smoothing out the gown and turned to go. Madame’s sharp voice called her back. “Thaïs.”

Thaïs turned again and dropped a curtsey. “Madame?”

“Wait. I’m not happy with the neck of that dress. I shall want you to adjust it.”

“Yes, Madame.” Thaïs retreated to the door while the other maids finished with Madame’s hair and the cosmetics for her face, and wound her into the lush layers of her garments. Jewels were hung in her ears, about her white throat, slid to glitter on her fingers. Musky perfume clung to her skin as she revolved slowly, examining her reflection in the longest mirror. Finally, she nodded, waving a hand to dismiss the maids. They filed out past Thaïs, one or two casting sharp glances at her from under their lashes. She looked away. They knew Madame used her to carry messages to her less savory friends. It had not made her popular.

Well, and she could live with that. The last girl left, and, at a nod from Madame, Thaïs closed the door behind her. Madame said, “This neckline. . . .” She plucked at the lace, fretful, frowning. “It doesn’t lie properly. I told you to fix it.”

Thaïs peered at the lace, patting it into place with her fingertips. She could see nothing wrong. But it did not do to contradict Madame. Instead, she fetched needle and thread from her pocket and set a tiny stitch at one edge, to hold the lace flat. “I beg your pardon, Madame. I trust that’s now acceptable.”

Madame gave herself a perfunctory glance in the mirror. “It will do, I suppose.” She stepped backward. “Be more careful next time.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“I’m not sure about these earrings.” Crossing to her toilette table, Madame re-opened the jewelry box and began to pick through it.

Thaïs followed her. The fortune-teller’s letter still lay on the tray. Carefully, she said, “Madame, the angel-speaker. . . .”

“That woman does not know her place. And in the current circumstances. . . .” But Madame was distracted, holding up a new pair of earrings against her cheeks to try the effect. “Read it to me, will you.”

“Yes, Madame.” Thaïs picked up the letter and turned it over. The seal snapped easily beneath her fingers: a shiver ran through her, and despite herself she looked over her shoulder. Nothing there. A draught. Versailles was full of draughts. She unfolded the letter, faint unease still spilling down her spine. The letter was short, little more than a note, scrawled in the fortune-teller’s clumsy hand. She read it quickly, voice low. “Esteemed Madame, finding my health declining, I send this letter to express my gratitude for your care for me and to commend to you my daughter Madeleine, in the hope that you will aid her as you have aided me.” The chill laid tighter hold: Thaïs dropped the letter back onto the tray and stood there, shivering.

Madame looked up at her and frowned. “What is it now, silly girl? The woman wants money, I daresay.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“It can wait.” And, in a swish of brocade, Madame swept from the room.

Two days later, the police came for Madeleine.

Gilles studied her for a moment, taking in the sloppy male dress, the disheveled hair, the stains on a once starched collar. Then he took the cup away and replaced it with a mug of ale. Thaïs spat. “What’s that? I’m not English.”

“Indeed not.”

“Well, then. . . .”

“But you are in my bar. Which means you drink what I give you.”

“Hah.” But she picked up the mug and took a deep swallow. “Tastes like washing water.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“The things I know about her.... I could threaten to tell the king. . . .”

Who would not listen. Sober, Thaïs would know that well enough. Gilles propped an elbow on the bar and looked at her again. A thread wound about the fingers of her right hand, tangling them. Too thin for most eyes to note, most likely. Certainly too thin for Thaïs to see, set as she was in her worldview of patronage and corruption. His brows drew down: he glanced quickly below the counter, at a tall black bottle.

She had to ask. It was better that way. All he could do was wait. She finished the beer and wiped her mouth. Then she said, “The old woman is one thing. But Madeleine.... She’s done nothing. She doesn’t even remember what happens when her mother summons the voices. The angels. She’s just a silly girl.” Gilles said nothing, refilling her mug. She said, “There must be something. . . .”

There was something. Gilles looked again at the bottle beneath the bar. Thaïs said, “It should be Madame, not her. Or one of those other court women. They’re the ones who wanted things.” She sighed, running a finger round the rim of the mug. “It should be me, I suppose. I went with Madame and I never said anything.”

“What would you do if it was you?” He had to ask carefully, now. Leading was improper.

“What do you think?” Thaïs shot him a wolfish smile. “What I do anyway. Let people know what they’re like, those courtiers.” The smile dropped. “Madeleine doesn’t know anything. But they’ll put her to the question anyway. And she’s such a little thing.”

“Perhaps her mother will exonerate her.”

She snorted, “Monsieur de La Reynie doesn’t believe anyone is innocent. That’s what they’re saying at court, anyway. The king believes it, too. He thinks everyone wants his love and favor and will do anything to get it.”

Dangerous words, those, in any other Paris bar. Not so much here, where too many of the other patrons had heavy secrets of their own.

Thaïs said, “Madame could save her. She should save her.” And then, at last, “I would, if I had the means.”

Gilles’ hand closed on the bottle. He said, “I could help you.”

“How?” Thaïs snorted, this time in derision. “Oh, you’re big enough, but not even you could overthrow Vincennes.”

“There’s no need to overthrow Vincennes. But I can help you get her out.”

She examined him narrowly, slowly. He could feel her gaze on his skin, weighing his reliability, his honesty, his sanity. He held still and, at the last, she dropped her gaze and nodded. “Do it, then.”

He brought out the bottle and a clean drinking glass. Into it, he poured a single finger of a dark fluid. Then he set it in front of her. He said, “All you have to do is drink this, and wish. I’ll tell you how.”

Thaïs nodded. It had cost her all she had earned for her last two satires to bribe her way this far. It would be enough, if what Gilles had promised was true. More than enough. She made herself look up and smile at the man. “Thank you, Monsieur. Your kindness means much to me.”

The man shuffled his feet. “Just don’t make any trouble.”

They reached a turn of the stair and he turned onto a small, cramped landing. Three doors led off it, all dark and heavy. He rummaged through the keys on his belt and selected one. Then he opened the lock on the left-most door. “In here.”

The door opened on a small dank cell, lit only by a thin sliver of late daylight that squeezed its way through a long slit high in the wall. The floor was scattered with greasy straw: to one side, this had been heaped up to form a makeshift bed. Madeleine huddled on it, wrapped in a thin blanket. She did not look up at the sound of the door. Pain closed a hand on Thaïs. She crossed the room in three steps and crouched down. “Madeleine. Madeleine, it’s me.”

Madeleine uncurled, raising a face smudged with soot and tears. Her long hair hung lank over her cheeks. She said, “You’re not. It’s a trick.”

“It’s really me.” Thaïs reached out and put her hand on Madeleine’s shoulder. “See.”

Madeleine gulped. “Did . . . did she send you? She must be kind, she’s so pretty.”

Thaïs shook her head. Madeleine was likely to realize soon enough that Madame’s pretty face did not always guarantee kindness. Then she said, “No, I came by myself. To help you.”

Madeleine clutched at her hand. “How?”

“I’m going to get you out.” Thaïs’ heart pounded in her ears. If she did this, if she went through with it, she was signing her own death-warrant, most like. But Madeleine, sweet silly Madeleine, would go free, as the fortune-teller had wished. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the hatch in the door, through which the guard watched them. He would take her words for comfort, for false hope. She turned back to Madeleine. “You liked my job, remember? All the pretty things?” Madeleine nodded, hanging onto her hand. “Would you like to do a job like that?”

“Yes.” Madeleine’s voice was a whisper.

“Well, when you leave here, that’s what you’ll do. You’ll have to be careful, especially at first, be quiet and polite and don’t make any fuss. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Then close your eyes, and wish hard, and it will happen. I promise. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes, then. . . .” Madeleine squeezed her eyes tight shut. For a moment, Thaïs hesitated, listening to the thud of her own heart, the quick rhythm of her breath. She looked down at her hands, thin and brown and strong. Then she leaned forward, and kissed Madeleine on the lips.

The room dipped: she gasped and fell forward. And then she opened her eyes and found herself gazing upwards from the straw bed into what used to be her own face.