There was nothing I knew how to make or mend. I was innocent of all effort; I was blank as a page. As a child in my parents’ manor I used to play a game because I knew no better. I would walk into the kitchens ten minutes before dinner and lift my little hand. Stop, I would call at the top of my voice. And they always did. How well the turn-spit made a gargoyle of himself; how carefully the cook stilled the ladle half-way to his lips; how obediently the maid held the soup tureen until her face grew scarlet. Only when I clicked my fingers might the servants slump into ordinary life again, like grumbling giants woken from their sleep of ages. I had many games, but that one was the best. They had no choice: the turn-spit and the cook and the maid. My father always told them his little beauty was never to be crossed. My mother said no one was ever to make her baby cry. You see, before they had me they were both so old they thought for sure they were barren.
