Some nights I get up from the little bed that I have in the queen’s room and pull up the corner of the tapestry over the window so that I can see the moon, a big warm harvest moon, so near to earth that I can see every wrinkle and pockmark on her face, and I ask her: “Did I bewitch the king? Did I ill-wish him? In that moment of fright when I bade him see nothing, did I, in truth, make him blind? Could such a thing be? Could I be so powerful? And if it was me—how can I take the words back and restore him?”
