Mag was in awe. And she was glad, too, that Marni hadn't been fully lost; that the woman she'd loved so well had been preserved, if altered, in her daughter.

And Shiloh had her own graces, it was true; she was still unrefined, but there was a fire in her heart that told Mag that her little bird wouldn't stay captive for much longer.

One glimpse was all it had taken. One glimpse, and that familiar fire had taken Mag's breath away. And oh, how she desperately wanted to stay with the little bird, to help her fly free - but how could she free anyone, when she herself only existed in a gilded cage at Geneco's pleasure? The company, it was true, could give Mag new eyes, but where could she find wings with which to escape her prison? Or help Shiloh escape hers?

It weighed upon her, heavily; even more heavily than her enslavement to Rotti. What sort of friend was she to Marni if she couldn't even help her daughter? And anyway, did she deserve to throw herself upon that fire?

'Shiloh, little bird, little bird,' she whispered. Come to me, she wanted to whisper, though there was no one to hear her; she wanted to beg for that fire, to hold it, to treasure it as the priceless object she knew it was. But that was useless.

In the end, wasn't it all useless?