“You were a fool, woman, for coming to my place of power.” Satan’s voice was strong and level.

“Really?” the woman asked. “My power thrives equally in light and darkness.” She seemed to sigh. “Does yours?”

The progress of time outside in the room was glacial. Seas rose and fell. Lands shifted—mountains grew and then stone cracked and they eroded away. Erosion changed the shape of worlds hanging in the infinite universe of hermetical spheres.

Or so it seemed to Desiderata.

And then something in the cell was different.

The air smelled of decay. And mould.

But also of new life.

“Many things grow in the darkness,” the Virgin said. “And you cannot stop them.”

The choking blackness gave way to a thicker darkness and a wider range of smells. Earth. Old basements. A wine cellar and the wine. Old cheese.

“You!” Ash said.

“Of course,” the other voice said. “Many beautiful things grow in the darkness. But I am not restricted by the darkness, and you have made an error.”

Suddenly, light flooded the room.

The floor of the room was gone—the cold stones, the hole in the corner, the recess where plates were left.

All gone.

The floor was a hand’s breadth deep in rich loam. And now, in between beats of Desiderata’s rapidly beating heart, something sprouted in the soil, and strands of green—not the virulent green of the Wild, but the natural green of the wilderness—leapt from the rich soil and began to grow. It grew straight into the pools of darkness, piercing the darkness the way the light could not. Even as the green spikes grew, they developed barbs.

The Virgin allowed herself to sink onto a bench that had appeared.

The sound of a choir began—

A shriek began—

And both were buried under the voices of a hundred thousand angels—or perhaps faeries. The briars leapt to the ceiling, which was now a luminous gold. The briars gave forth blossoms, a profusion of them so rich as to beggar thought, and they burst into flower—red and white and pink roses, and the smell of roses swept the cell like a cleansing tonic and routed the darkness like an avenging army.

And then every blossom began to move—the petals began to fall and the legions of faery angels seized on each falling petal and carried them to the figure of the woman seated in the middle of the rose garden.

Desiderata sighed. For the first time in as long as she could remember, the black assault on her wall had ceased. “Oh, Blessed Virgin! You have saved me,” Desiderata said.

The woman turned slightly, and raised a corner of the wimple that hid her face. “This is not victory, my child,” she said. “Nor is this even the turning point. I have only restored equilibrium.”

“Liar!” shouted Ash. “Hypocrite!”

But he was very far away.