She is a faded photograph, a dusty memory, moths’-wings fluttering in the hush of a ruined tower. She passes unremarked, floating through the corridors like a trailing wisp of cobweb, light as dandelion fluff, yet her heart is dull lead, groaning within her as she passes daily the scenes of her betrayal, forgotten even now by all but she and the Baron. Is she anything now but a wistful thought, drifting upon the wind? Was she anything then but a little clump of dust gathering in the corner of her mother’s workroom? She is grey, grey, grey because she has never been otherwise.