“No, she can,” Phosyne amends, because Ser Voyne is looking at Treila’s edges, perfectly avoiding the substance of her. “She can’t notice you.”

“Phosyne—” Voyne tries, but Treila talks over her:

“It’s the Lady’s fault.”

Phosyne holds up a hand, and Voyne goes silent, watching her warily now. “The Lady?” Phosyne asks.

“Yes. She saw me with Ser Voyne earlier. For some reason, Ser Voyne thought I was Her, though I didn’t . . . realize it at first.” She doesn’t look pleased at the memory. “I thought the Lady would kill me, but Ser Voyne went to Her obediently, and . . .” She gestures. Pauses, looks like she is going to stay something else. She rubs at the shell of her ear and doesn’t say it.

But Phosyne thinks she understands. “The Lady has made sure Voyne won’t confuse you with Her again.”

“Exactly.” Her gaze returns to Voyne. “It’s irritating, but not insurmountable. Probably a blessing. She’s docile, now?”

“Yes, and coherent. I—”

She’s cut off by Voyne seizing her by the upper arm, hauling her away from the door.

“Phosyne,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Tell me, right this instant, what you see. Who you’re talking to about me.”

“A friend,” Phosyne says.

Treila quirks a brow. “She can’t hear me, either?”

“Apparently not.”

“Phosyne.” Voyne’s fingers tighten.

“It’s another facet of your bewitchment,” Phosyne says, looking up at the knight, wishing that what she’s about to say isn’t going to make everything worse. “The Lady is preventing you from seeing somebody. Her name is Treila.”

Voyne’s face goes blank for just a second. “What?” she asks, and she’s a little breathless.

Phosyne glances at Treila. Treila huffs a small laugh.

This is far more extensive than Phosyne could have imagined. Simple, in its comprehensiveness. She clears her throat, tries again. “Tell me what you hear. Are you ready?”

Voyne nods.

“Treila.”

Again, blankness. Then she comes back to herself; she doesn’t say anything, but Phosyne can see it as a quickening behind her eyes. A few seconds pass, then Voyne goes, “Well?”

“I said it.”

“You—” Voyne chokes a little, lets go of Phosyne, backs away.

“Tell me what you’ve heard me say,” Phosyne asks. She shouldn’t feel this fascinated. She should probably be far more afraid.

Voyne concentrates. “That the Lady is preventing me from . . . something. I didn’t hear the rest.”

“Then I can’t explain it. You will have to trust me. Do you trust me, Ser Voyne?”

No, she very clearly does not. But that doesn’t mean she won’t. Her throat bobs. “Whoever you’re talking to,” she says, slowly, “is a friend. And is not them.”

“No. I promise you that. Do you recall, I said we may have a way out?”

Voyne nods.

Treila makes a displeased sound.

“This is our way out.”