By the time the Archbishop of Remus comes to the confessional, the top of the holy jade table is heaving with tiny monuments to the ruder parts of human anatomy, which refuse to insta-collapse in shame. The Archbishop says nothing about the lumpiness of the hastily flattened surface as they sit down across from Misery. Pretending not to notice. At close range Pyrex Imogen has striking eyes, eggshell irises ringed with shimmer that matches their hair. This saint’s quirk looked natural—positively lovely—in the Duke’s dark, rosy palette. On the Archbishop it looks like polar ice splitting in an ammoniac sea. Pyrex Storm Imogen runs pale as the cursed clone-saints, but not quite as monochromatically: their iridescence tends toward orange, color of evening sky. There’s a warmth to the Archbishop’s manner that inspires instant trust even in this paranoid fuck. Maybe they remind Misery of her mother: same age, same wiry knuckles, same aura of peace. Amaranth was always a fount of calm and understanding, even when the doctors—and her own son—called her mad.

“Well, Misery,” the Archbishop says with their gentle syllables. “What a strange pickle we’ve found ourselves in.”

Misery nods with the proper amount of reverence. The Archbishop gestures and a white saint comes in bearing a tray of leaf tea in a clear bubble, hot and fragrant. As zie vanishes through the cut-hole door the illusion of open space is once again complete.

“I hope you will forgive us for your earlier treatment. You were never meant to be taken into Imperial custody.” Pyrex Imogen pours amber liquid into two tiny cups, clear glass flecked with equally tiny pink petals. “Unfortunately we were unable to intercept the Throne before they acted. I am sorry if they treated you poorly. After what you’ve done, stopping a surprise Heretic attack on your colony, one would think they would be more grateful. Unfortunately, our Emperor is not prone to gratitude these days.

“But,” they add, suddenly smiling, “you could almost say your intransigence was a good thing, for it brought you back to us.”

Misery accepts the cup of tea, which burns her mouth but goes down like cream. She’s never had anything so smooth. It puts a pleasant warmth in her, and the muscles in her neck and shoulder are unknotting for the first time in days. There’s nothing close to this on Rootsdown. Even the whirling, alcoholic facsimile of space around them doesn’t bother her now. Misery nods to show she’s paying attention.

The Archbishop sets down the sphere of tea; it hovers, half-empty, over a disc of holy tigereye. “I am sure you have many questions for me, just as I have many questions for you. But in the spirit of all the strife you have suffered at our hands, I’ll let you go first.”