Celeste isn't part of the circle. She stands on a high place, edge of a crumbled cliff, and looks down on the Sisters and Brothers gathered around the altar pit. The sundial mosaic at the center lies invisible under the shifting dust of the dry season: when the rains come, if the rains come, they'll wash it clean again, and the pattern of blue and gold and tangerine tiles she was named for will echo the sky.
She's not part of the circle, and she stands so high above them all that in the swirl and vortex of dust rising to the incantation, she can't tell Jace from Tori, Evan from Glass. It turns them all red-grey, uniform, white shirts and brown--except surely that must be Sandhya in the red red skirt, all that dust and ash rising up to grit her hair, not crying because Celeste wouldn't give her name to the questioners. So Celeste is going alone.
Celeste can't tell them apart: the circle is perfect, geometric. But she hears them singing. Singing her soul away, into exile with her body.
She lifts her pack, tumpline biting her forehead, and moves on.