It can’t be. She knows the reality of what she saw. She knows the truth of the sickness that bides its time within her. She’s hooked to the nullvoid and nothing can change her fate. That’s what the Tear of Assan was reacting to. She didn’t pass the test; the stone was simply giving the Archbishop a warning. They just didn’t realize.

In any case, she’s locked onto this path now, madness and all, lies and all. She has to keep it up if she wants to survive. For how long, she doesn’t know. But she’s lived this long, she might as well live a little longer.

The Duke of Apis chooses that moment to make his entrance, jeweled and loud against the architecture of holy contemplation. Misery sits up, scowling, praying that her eyes aren’t as reddened as they feel. Duke Argan has his hands on his hips and irritation writ large across his face. Is he here to kvetch about something? “What now?”

“Well, what do you think?” When Misery’s scowl only deepens he gives up and goes in: “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? How much danger you’ve put people in—not just yourself, but me, and my staff … maybe you’re not aware of the precariousness of the duchy’s position in the greater hierarchy. That’s fine. I didn’t expect you to. But surely common sense would have told you what you did was really, fucking, stupid. Attempting a runner like that … What did you think would happen? You thought you could give us the slip? Never mind that the Capital is the most airtight installation in all of Faithful space, no, sure, I’m just going to break loose and escape the grasp of the entire Throne. That’s going to work out. You’re brilliant and blessed, you’re better than anyone.”

Misery stopped listening about three sentences in. When the Duke pauses to catch his breath she tucks her feet under her knees. “Feel better now?”

The Duke inhales, and Misery girds for another tirade. But the man exhales every molecule in a huge gust and flaps a defeated hand, turning away from her. She lets the awkward silence swell. Without her usual insight into the clocking of his mind, Misery has taken the tack of waiting and watching how each interaction plays out. She usually lets Duke Argan speak first, an arrangement that suits him very well. He so loves the sound of his voice.

When the Duke has gathered his wits and composure, he says, “Well. I came by to see how you were doing. Make sure you’re fed. Not wanting for anything. I’m still nominally your ducal authority, after all. It’s good. Your interview with Imogen went very well. They’re pleased.”

“Are they?”