"You can't," she replies instantly, shivering. No wind stirs the still, odorous air of the garden, but the grass rustles and the trees creak and twist. "I've forgotten my past, but I remember my future. I'm fated to be used. I'll get sick, and then I'll turn into a beast, and then I'll die."

Her eyes glaze over—she is seeing this happen. She crosses her arms over her chest, great plumes of feathers dragging, a mantle of gold.

"If you don't want to be part of that, then go away. Go away. I can't give you anything."