Misery develops instant wariness. Her fingers hurt where they clench around the edges of Mother’s amulet. The princess’s expression is tightly wound, and purple shadows park under her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone had to make sure you were okay.”

“Isn’t that the doctor’s job?”

“Shut up. You were dead when we brought you out of the seraph.”

“So she said. Does that mean I’m in trouble?”

The princess detaches from the glass frame she’s been using for support. “I think we are all in trouble.”

Her heart skips across a star system every minute. “What kind of trouble? What happened?”

Dr. Sower says, “I don’t think our dear Misery is up to speed with what’s happened to the seraph. They don’t seem to have much recollection of anything. I might even say they’re confused.”

“Can they walk?”

The doctor shrugs. “They’re standing, aren’t they? You: Can you walk?”

Misery nods numbly. The princess studies her standing form, and her appraisal scours Misery’s skin like a solar flare. “Good. Because I want to show you what you’ve done.”

Misery trails Alodia Lightning through the chattering labyrinth of Angelsteeth Base. The brightness of the implant overlay hurts her head, but she can feel the beginning creep of salve-muting: that detached, floating feeling that seeks to dull her mind and blunt the force of her emotions. So the good doctor’s hypo was loaded with salves after all. She hopes they wear off soon. Doctors developed salves as a last resort to curb the violent mindscapes of the voidsick, but they have never made Misery feel any better. Mother hated them too, and would often hide and toss her pills when Crem wasn’t looking. A vast distance develops between Misery and the physical world, as though her head lingers a hundred klicks above firmament, her feet barely touching the ground.

Ahead of her the princess walks in silence. The Lady Alodia Lightning: an enigma, the shiniest mystery in the temple of interlocking mysteries that now comprises Misery’s life. Misery hasn’t forgotten their last conversation, nor the princess’s brutal snap of anger. Together they’ve endured so much since the violence of their first meeting, yet Misery remains shut outside the thick metal hull that Alodia Lightning has placed around herself. “You must be glad,” she says, another futile attempt to crack that shell.

Alodia Lightning spares a brief glance over her shoulder. “Glad for what?”

“Well, you won. You fared okay in the real test. I failed.”

Alodia Lightning’s gaze returns to the path ahead. “Wasn’t a competition. Don’t know why you thought it was.”