Afterward, Iocale went to her loom, and wove in secret, shut away for days with only water to sustain her. Her tears saturated her work, and her fingers bled from the speed and precision she worked with. When her father finally broke into her room one evening to try to convince her to eat the room was empty. There was a completed tapestry on the loom; Iocale made of stars, her eyes full of grief and accusation, a fox cradled on her lap. The curtains at the open window flapped in the breeze.