Time skips forward again, and Misery rises into half consciousness to see a dreamlike figure hovering over her. She’s still too weak to fight or respond. The darkness occludes her visitor’s face, but she knows the voice: Pyrex Imogen. The Archbishop whispers as though afraid of being discovered. “I am sorry, Misery. We could not sway them enough, although we tried. Your crimes were too great for the Throne to forgive, even if you were driven by divine will.” Fingers brush Misery’s brow, which seems very distant from the seat of her consciousness. She feels like a child again, and the Archbishop’s oceanic voice is her cradle. “We must trust in Hir guidance in the days to come, even if it proves difficult. But do not lose faith in what you have been called to, Misery. I promise I will not lose faith in you.”

Her hand fills with the weight of something smooth and familiar. Could it be—?

“I know it will be scant comfort where you are going. But this seemed important to you. I hope it helps.”

Mother’s amulet. She has it back and the world is whole again.

Misery drifts into unconsciousness. When she next opens her eyes, Pyrex Imogen is gone, and Misery wonders if the Archbishop was a fever dream, a hallucination like Ruin is. But the weight of her mother’s amulet remains in her hand, solid and reassuring. Perhaps angels are real after all.

When she next wakes she knows she’s better, because Ruin is back. The delusion perches on a molded supply cabinet, gazing at her with nullvoid eyes that could swallow the soul. “Things are about to become a lot more interesting, Misery Nomaki.” Hir smile as zie says this is the least comforting thing in the world.

She’s guessed right about being back in Church territory. The med naves on the Capital are fancy, all hard and polished and finely engineered, but in foundation and spirit they are the same as the clay-made naves back home. She occupies the center in a salvation pod-turned-bed with its sides retracted, the protective arch of a scanner above her, surrounded by a barricade of monitor screens that keep track of everything from her blood pressure to the oxygen in her lungs. The painted image of Saint Agneta is instead a hologram, flickering over all their heads to bestow peace and blessings.

The priest in charge is Dr. Palisade Childs, he/him pronouns, tasked with restoring Misery’s health. A hearty young man with a soft face and gentle fingers, she recognizes his voice from her fevered drifting the night before. Close-cropped chestnut hair shimmers with a hint of green. As she stands for examination and he sets his drones over her, she asks, “I had a visitor last night. You spoke to them. Who was it?”