She has such an unearthly, ethereal feeling about her, she seems a sylph, an air spirit. She moves around as if not submitted to any physical laws, to any gravity, to any air friction. Her eyes seem to have a life of their own. She seems an involuntary guest here, albeit getting through this world as smoothly as a knife through butter, but still an alien.
Only her genius is her castle, her drawbridge, her knight‘s armour, her sword.
„Losing isn‘t an option for her. What would be her life otherwise“, – comments Borgov.
She is not cold-hearted at all, not soulless, she is just alltogether in another dimension, on a different plane than our petty passions.
She is Lewis Carroll‘s Alice, just exactly the opposite way, she‘s got into our world from the world beyond the looking glass and brought her chessboard on her from there — the very eerie chessboard that grows downwards from the ceiling, stretching its figures towards her at her most unconsolable, uncomfortable, to draw her back inside her magic world, which she came from and belongs to.