‘How could you begin many times?’ he asked her gently. She pushed her glossy black hair back from her face and pressed her temples as if it would ease her. ‘It’s all a circle. A circle that turns. Nothing stops, nothing is lost, and it all goes spiralling on. Like thread on a spool, Wintrow. Around and around it goes, layering on in circles, and yet it is always the same piece of thread.’
