The monstrous challenge of the Zenobia tightrope was that it curlicued. It went all around like a big corkscrew before it looped out and up. Moira felt like she was walking a succession of bicycle wheels, but she never looked down and she kept her arms out straight, and over the heads of a murmuring crowd she kept on going. Oh, how she longed for a glass of water. Oh, how she ached. Oh, how much scarier any of this was than finding her way through the dark. There was, she began to see, a door up ahead—an end, perhaps, in sight. She had no idea what time it was. She no longer thought it mattered. She no longer thought herself new to this place. She felt as if she’d been a Zenobian for years.

Later she would say that ...

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