"These things always travel in circles. She lay, as she had
lain before, shackled by dreams to a cruel and everlasting
monument of sleep. Beneath translucent lids walked ghostly figures: princes
and paupers, knights and knaves, witches and millers
and magicians. The roses
of her bower were also kept from death, but through
ages of lingering unlife their scent had become sickly, reminiscent of her own
unwholesome rest. The windowpane was crusted with frost."