She blinked. She looked at her arm stumps.
From the end of each capped nub, where a bangle's ring still glowed softly, now extended a short chain. And at the end of each chain, a small gleaming hook, delicate and ornate, like the hooks used to hang lanterns or, she realized with dawning horror, like the hooks used to hang up chickens and ducks in the butcher's market.
Chains. On her arms. She was a chick. A trussed, hooked, hanging-ready chick, and the image of the hanger on the wall, with its neat row of wiggling hands, filled in itself in her mind with horrible new possibilities.
"I..." Her voice came out very small. "What happened here? What is... what IS this place now?"
"Improvement," he said again, warmly.
She followed his gesture around the room, and the room slowly reassembled itself into a picture.
