“I appreciate this gesture of yours,” says the Archbishop. Their strides long and fluid, their demeanor cleansed of the upset that had plagued it earlier. “I had hoped that your General would be more receptive to my ideas, but it was good to be reminded of the picture. Forgive me, Misery. I must not ever forget my place.”

A strange chill in her liver, being asked forgiveness by an archbishop. But yet she would offer it when begged for. “Why did Major Reyes say your request was a personal favor?”

“Do you not know?”

“I would not ask if I did.”

Pyrex Imogen casts a wary glance backward, directed at Lightning: Did you not tell them? But they answer Misery’s pointed question. “The commander in charge of Monkglass … its administrator and chief, is my sibling. The Lady Storm Mirelle.”

The Lady Storm Mirelle. Instant recognition, recall, recalibration: a name that has scrolled past on a feed more times than Misery can pinpoint, a set of syllables that has knitted itself into the tapestry of white noise surrounding news from the centers of power. Misery has never made the connection. Of course. Shit. “I’m sorry to hear. Are you close?”

The Archbishop draws a long, cold breath. “Mirelle and I are twins,” Pyrex Imogen says. “Born of the same place, at the same time. Growing up, Mirelle and I were inseparable. We shared everything: clothes, interests, secrets. We completed one another’s sentences. We lived in a world that was divided into halves: us, and everyone else. Everything else.”

Their voice has turned membranous, web-thin. Misery is asking them to cut themself open and expose viscera, soft and messy. “Mirelle and I were called to very different vocations. Such are the vicissitudes of life. My sister was drawn to serve the Throne of the Faithful, and I to the ranks of the Church. Even so, we have always kept in contact, through the distance between us, in between the demands of faith and duty.” Their expression turns difficult. “The months of the siege have been the longest we’ve not spoken.”

“I am sorry,” Misery says.

A laugh. “Do not feel sorry for me, child. I am lucky, in many respects. There are so many ways an engagement with the Heretics can end badly. Mirelle is safe for now, and every day I thank the Forge that the situation remains the same.”

“It seems to me,” Misery says, “that a diplomatic resolution to the siege would in fact be in your interests.”

“Yes.” Their steps slow and they bow their head. “I understand why the two esteemed officers think the way they do, but attacking Monkglass directly would put Mirelle in a great deal of danger. I would not have suggested it if I did not think it would do greater good.”