When the man beneath the stands looked up the Lady of the Fair Isle was there, smiling. He gasped and stepped back, hands held up in warding.

She tilted her head, her changeable eyes gentle and wise. “Be at peace,” she said, her voice silken and soft.

He frowned, his gaze drawn to the silver chords that streamered away from the Lady and muttered almost to himself, “Where’s there peace for a puppet?”

Her deep blue eyes shifted from dark to light to dark again, like clouds drifting over the moon and she gestured gracefully, coiling her own chord around her fingers. “I know not the face of my creatrix, but I know she is there. Is that truly so tragic a thing?” She met his gaze and gestured again, her silver chord flickering away into the night. “There are those that spend lifetimes looking for such truth.”

“You are nothing but a hollow reflection,” he said, his lip curling.

“Perhaps, but I ask you this…Is the Moon any less beautiful, though she is but a reflection of the Sun?” she said turning away.