There was a pang of empathy in Clotho's smile. The seventies had been lonely for her as well, after her fiery surge of idealistic defiance had disintegrated into ash around her. When the smoke had cleared, she'd been alone, friendless and heavily pregnant, sick at the thought of having to slink home to face Atropos' I-told-you-sos. Unlike Fairytales, her memory of the time was all too sharp.
"You certainly have," she agreed. "Though... it might depend what you're trying to do. It can be risky, playing with the Weave."