Cassandra inclined her head a moment, then nodded slowly. Dark and serious, her gaze drifted back to the sightless eyes of the dead girl. When she spoke, her voice was soft and thoughtful. "The mother and the father, they fear you. They remember the legends of the old country, and so they send you their prayers and leave offerings of wheat and rye in the hope that you will look kindly on them. But the babes, they are children of the New World. The old country is naught but a story to them and its gods no realer than Rumpelstiltskin or Hansel and Gretel. They would have forgotten you in time and when they were grown there would be no more sheaths of wheat, no fear of the midday sun."
She raised her head once more, but though she seemed to be looking in Pscipolnitsa's direction her eyes seemed to look right through the goddess, through the dust and the fields of wheat at some faraway point. "But now the sister will carry your name with her forever. And even when she is grown and wrinkled and has long since convinced herself that the girl was killed by sunstroke or a weak heart she will be ever wary of the noontime, and mayhap even tell her own children the tale of the Lady of the Rye. And so your name and your tale shall survive another generation."