Every level of the tower has a hearth. The stair spiral, of cut stone, feels like a stalk, the helix from which red fire threads out at every level of the dwelling. An axed birch curls to ash. There is no time she knows that isn't tactile. What is spoken, what is woven, will have turned into a world. As a whelk is turned by water, the tower is turned by wind. Their background takes the greater part. She does not question the facts of seclusion. The fires are there without her knowing how, or ever asking who it is who lays them.