She can’t. She can’t, not after seeing Voyne eat piece after piece of a man’s arm. It’s all she can do not to vomit.

Her brain is on fire, the Lady’s words echoing in her head, out of order, recombining. Oh, I was not summoned, little mouse repeats again, and again. It brings no relief.

Phosyne didn’t call these things here, and that now appears to be the worst possibility of all.

She’s in the main garrison room, staring at the doors available to her, wondering if she should retreat to her tower, or down into Treila’s tunnel, when she sees a shadow move against the far wall. The late-afternoon sunlight is harsh, the shadows deep. Phosyne freezes, trapped between Ser Voyne, who must be close behind, and whoever lurks ahead of her.

Treila steps out into the light.

“Where is she?” Treila whispers.

“Close,” Phosyne confesses. “The tunnel—”

“Not when she can find us again so easily. She’ll look there first.” Treila beckons, and Phosyne comes close enough that the younger woman can seize her wrist, draw her close. “Your best bet,” Treila says, “is outside.”

Outside, Phosyne hears singing. Joyous cries. It’s far more animate than it was when Voyne hauled her through it. She shakes her head. “If the Lady—no, that creature—sees me again—”

Treila doesn’t question Phosyne’s hasty correction; perhaps she’s already drawn the same conclusion, that these strange visitors aren’t what they appear to be. “She won’t, there’s too much going on,” the girl assures her. “Our mistake before was thinking we were safe because nobody was here to see us. It just makes us easier to spot. Go, hide, I’ll come to the tower tonight and we can try again.”

“What about you?”

“The other servants will wonder where I am, if I don’t put in an appearance soon.” Treila grins, and it’s manic and cocky. Phosyne remembers, then, to be afraid of this girl, too.

“Don’t eat the food,” she warns, glancing over her shoulder. She thinks she hears footsteps.

Treila looks, too, so she probably does. “Of course not,” she agrees. “We’ll be out of here by dawn. Now go.” She releases her grip, and slips back into the shadows.

Phosyne takes a deep breath, stomach cramped with fear as much as hunger, and ducks out into the yard, back into the masses.

Most are still seated, still gorging themselves on impossible food, but some now, finally, are on their feet. They are singing and dancing, celebrating. Two nuns, their heads bare, their habits discarded, smear honey on each other’s lips. Phosyne stares at them for too long before moving onward, looking for somewhere she can sit and disappear.