I followed the spiralling stairs as they curved up the side of the dome. The air was laced with the fragrance of herbs and incense, but there was a faint whiff of ammonium and iron beneath it all. The smell had always bothered me. On some level, the whole place bothered me, but I could not wholeheartedly hate the Martyrium either. It was too beautiful for that, and too entangled in my understanding of myself.

Outside my mother’s alcove stood a ceramic basin full of water. I washed my hands carefully, taking my time. A scalpel rested on the rim of the basin. Once I was done cleaning, I picked it up.

My mother lay beneath a richly embroidered shroud, her bed pressed up against the far wall of the chamber. The candle beside the door fluttered as I passed. Her face was relaxed; it had an ease that I never saw before her martyrdom.

“Happy anniversary, Mom,” I muttered.

Her chest rose and fell, in and out, in and out. I drew a stool over to the bed and sat down. For a while, I just watched her.

“I saw Reverend Cyde yesterday,” I said. “She’s doing well. She recognised me, which I didn’t expect.”

I straightened the corner of her shroud where it was skewed, aligning it to the edge of the pallet.

“I think that she tried to offer me a job at the Moon House. Which was…” I lapsed into silence. I could hear the chirping of birds outside. “I’d have to leave the city, and I don’t know if I can. Even though the Moon House was very beautiful. And I liked Reverend Cyde.”

And I would have to perform fewer Renewals. I fingered the edge of the scalpel, running my thumb over the blade.

“She said it was a favour to you, and I’m still thinking about it. But I can’t ask Finn to leave Ceyrun for my sake; that wouldn’t be fair to him. And without him or Millie, I’m not sure I could manage the visions, so—”

The scalpel nicked my thumb, and I cursed under my breath. A thin line of red welled up just below my nail. It stung.

“I’m seeing him again later this morning,” I said, sucking the cut. “Millie’s plan. Maybe I’ll discuss it with him then.”

My mother’s face was unchanging.

I sighed and drew back the shroud. Her legs were a mass of scars, neat cauterized grooves chipped into her calves. I knew exactly which scar was the first. Right above her ankle bone, the white indentation bright against her deep brown skin. Even then, I had been precise.

My hand was steady. I cut a neat rectangle into her calf, less than an inch in length, and drew out the hot flesh. My mother did not even twitch. Her expression remained as serene as ever. Blood ran from the wound, but I used the last lace in my body to tie the skin back together. The binding would dissolve in a few hours, but the Martyrium staff would cauterise the cut long before then.