“Now,” murmured Agnes, lifting her willow wand, “hold her, Rin, and don’t let go, whatever shapes she passes through.” Rin tightened their grip, and braced. The swan became fire, then snow; the snow became lightning, then thorns. Rin held the burning, scorching, stabbing shapes of her closer and closer, winced and bled the bright, clear blood of Arcadians over her, while Agnes muttered grammar forwards and backwards, coaxing the truth of the woman back into memory and flesh. Then, there she was—naked and nameless in the arms of her lover, save for a silver ring, but otherwise all herself.
