“Not the Lady. And even if you were, you would not be mine,” Phosyne says, and for her disrespect earns Ser Voyne’s other hand tangled in her hair. She leans back, bruised throat exposed, but she does not writhe or pant. “I have not taken honey in nearly a year.”

The Lady looks over the length of her, presented across Ser Voyne’s lap. “No,” She says, “you have not. But not, I think, for lack of love.”

“Love implies a presence in my thoughts. These days, there’s more an absence.”

“A bold confession.”

“An honest one.”

“I will concede you lack a longing,” the Lady admits. “You will need to eat something soon, little mouse. Already I smell rot upon your breath. You will not last much longer. Do you choose to die, rather than accept help?”

Phosyne looks like she’s about to argue, but instead says nothing at all.

“You are not a fool, little mouse,” the Lady says. There is a hint of warning there.

Phosyne should know better. But then, deference has never been her strength, even when it would benefit her most.

The Absolving Saint returns, bearing with him a platter upon which a steaming, fragrant joint of meat rests, surrounded by split pomegranates, stewed mushrooms, verdant lettuces. Defleshed bones ornament the plate like scattered pearls, eight in all, none the same exact size or shape.

In her arms, Phosyne goes rigid, as if she’s made of wood.

The Absolving Saint places the platter before the three of them. He picks up carving fork and knife, and begins to slice petals of flesh away from the two bones that run through the center of the shank. He places two on Ser Voyne’s plate, and her mouth waters.

Cinching Phosyne tight against her with one arm and leaning forward to pin her to the table’s edge, Voyne reaches out and picks up a piece. It is tender and slippery between her fingers. She is mildly surprised to see her hands are still covered in blood and honey.

It wouldn’t have mattered before. Before? But she has a memory of heavy iron in her hand, between her and her food, carrying it to her lips instead of her sticky fingers.

She takes a bite anyway. She chews. She swallows.

She lets the Absolving Saint take her hand when she is done and wipe it clean for her, then reaches for more.

In her lap, Phosyne sounds like she is crying. “Look. Please, look at what you’re eating,” she entreats.

Ser Voyne looks. The roast weeps glistening fat, rests in pools of oil that shimmer in the candlelight and sing with spices. Voyne can’t help but lean in, can’t help but select another glistening slice from the beautiful arrangement. Horse? Whatever beast it came from was heavily muscled, but Voyne has never seen a shank with so much meat upon the bone before.

“Don’t,” Phosyne begs.