[A forward question -- one that surprises her, stilling her fingers. For long moments, she is silent.]

[When she speaks again, she is quiet.]

Long ago, the humans knew me and understood who I am. Long ago, they visited me and shared their lives with me, and asked for my help because they trusted me to give it, because they honored what I gave.

Now there are few who know me -- not even the ones who seek me out. And the ones who look for me hunt me, stalk me within my own home, asking me to alter life's first gift to them . . . my work, my purpose, to which I devote the very essence of my being. They do not care what I do; they care only that I can do it, that it can be used for their own purposes. I answer them because my heart is still soft -- yes, still soft, in spite of everything!

They ask, and then they leave. And they do not return.

The time in which I live, there is such scant room for spirits. Given the city that I see beyond these vines . . . I have little hope that the situation has improved.

So I return the question to you, priestess: What is it worth to be known to a world such as this?