“From peak to peak, the pagodas of the palace stood on the tips of the Westward Mountains,” she said. Her fingers shut and then opened again, the pattern of the thread rearranged. “A dozen bridges of finely hewn stone spanned these peaks, connecting these pagodas in a marvelous web. Bridges that turned on giant axes, like the hands of a clock. By the emperor’s whim, and the power of his god gifts, the bridges moved, and the layout of the palace would change.” Her fingers kept closing and reopening, the pattern of the thread born anew, the connections shifting.
