

A figure sits upright in bed with both hands covering the face, and nine swords hang in a row on the wall behind.
The swords are on the wall. Not in her, not falling, not held by anyone. Mounted, in a neat row, going nowhere.
She has woken and sat up. This is the middle of the night and she is alone with it.
The coverlet across her lap is worked with roses and with figures from the zodiac. Ordinary life and the turning of the year, both continuing, both entirely irrelevant at three in the morning.
The bed is carved and comfortable.
She is safe. Nothing in this room is threatening her.
The card is completely still.
Nothing is happening in it at all, which is the truthful thing about this particular suffering.
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