The Acolyte beside Ilva said something soothing and tried to make her sit back down. Ilva swatted the woman’s hand away.

“Bunch of old dead women. Who cares? Who really cares? And what did I get out of it? Nothing.” She laughed. “I hope you’re happy now, Jesane.”

“Please stop making a spectacle of yourself,” said Jesane coolly.

“Spectacle? That hasn’t even started yet. You have no idea, but I do.” She swayed and mumbled something, then spoke louder. “I do.”

The Acolyte made another attempt to calm her down, but Ilva stepped out of reach.

“You’re all sick.” Her voice quavered. “I’m done with it all; I’m leaving now.”

She staggered to the door of the dining room, and slammed it behind her. A moment of silence, then a few guests laughed nervously. I felt stricken.

Bunch of old dead women. That could only be the martyrs. To hear Ilva raving—who cares? who really cares?—while surrounded by light and wine and luxury seemed monstrous. Like someone had peeled back the skin of a new apple to reveal a core crawling with maggots. It was real, as good as a confession. It was right in front of me.

Ilva had probably killed my grandmother.

“Unbelievable,” muttered Jesane. She cleared her throat and pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

I was back in my mother’s kitchen, all the curtains torn down. This wasn’t an accident. The broken glass on the floor.

“If there is an awkward situation between the two of you, I can make sure that Ilva gets to her carriage safely,” said Millie.

Jesane wavered.

“Really, it’s no problem.” Millie rose from her chair. She ironed out the creases in her shirt. “Let me take care of it.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Lariel, was it?” said Verje suddenly. “I’ll assist you. I don’t trust that woman not to steal something on her way out.”

The Reverend’s voice snapped me back to the present, and I tensed. Shouldn’t leave Millie alone with Verje. I wanted to stop her, but Millie’s mouth was set, and I knew that look too well; she would not listen. Before I could protest, she had squeezed my shoulder affectionately and was following Verje out of the room.

“That was upsetting,” Celane murmured. “I wonder what Herald Bosch could have meant.”

“Probably nothing, Reverend,” said Jesane. “She’s just drunk and bitter.”

Liars. Both of them. I swallowed. They knew, they all knew. But I could not afford to dwell on any of this right now; I had to rein in my feelings.

Celane shook herself. “Probably. It just made me think of the new condition that Public Health is investigating. It’s supposed to afflict some younger Sisters.”

Need to act normal.

“What kind of condition?” I took a sip of water.

Celane turned to look at me. Her gaze was sharp.

“Hallucinations,” she said.

I was lucky; I could cover my reaction behind the act of drinking. My heart pounded. I set the glass down before carefully replying, “Hallucinations?”