The acoustics of the awakening chambers continue to astound. Whatever it is she must suffer tonight is silent to me. I write this while the central brazier in the Garden of the Afflicted burns the woman’s few material possessions. Within the temple walls, the sounds of the city are muffled and distant. I can hear only the music of evening insects and the crackle of Joanna’s belongings. She has inherited the name of one of the witnesses of Christ’s epochal trauma and the melancholy queen of Castile. Rich resonances. Should she endure, her transformation will be quite the spectacle.
