Misery uncovers her face and lets the light hurt her eyes. “It’s me that’s the problem,” she says. “There’s something wrong with me.” She’s doing Crem and Ruin a favor, since neither are around to provide the commentary. Those were Crem’s words exactly, There’s something wrong with you. She was six or maybe seven and he’d slapped her for mouthing off, and in retaliation she bit through the tendon between his finger and thumb. His lip had curled as he said it. There’s something wrong with you. Then he backhanded her so hard she lost a tooth. It was loose anyway, he would say later. On its way out.

Her head swims now, just as it did back then. Something wrong with her for sure. A core of rottenness, accelerated by the creep of the nullvoid through her soul. It’s probably for the best if things end here; they’re only going to get worse otherwise. Misery could speed up the process and stop drinking from the cell’s built-in spigot, but she fears the brutality of death by dehydration.

She really wishes they’d let her keep Mother’s amulet.

Some undefined time later, three white saints come to her cell. Misery, crumpled on the bed like a poisoned plant, experiences them as a series of looming shadows, cool fingers on her brow, warm palms on her body. Two of them lift her by the arms and put her on her feet, and her knees buckle as a wave of static overwhelms her vision. She then loses touch with time, resurfacing much later in a nest of softness. A bed? There’s the scent of disinfectant, a churchlike smell, and a slow buzz in her limbs that speaks of salves. Has the Church regained custody of her person? Someone’s speaking in her vicinity, a voice that creaks with authority. Who is that? It sounds familiar, but it’s not the Archbishop of Remus. A different voice she doesn’t recognize, soft and steady, replies: “Terrorist or not, they are also a child of the Larex Forge, and deserve the dignity we accord to all children of the Demiurge. They need to recover.” The rest of the conversation is inaudible, but they must be talking about her. Is that the Empress Dowager? Who knows.

Misery drifts. She’s safe, for now. Her tormented body is healing.