Voyne does, and this time, she can see the gap again.

“Go first,” she tells Phosyne. That way, at least, she has half a chance of seeing where she’s going.

Of course, the tunnel is entirely dark. Voyne realizes her mistake as soon as she wriggles into the tunnel (really, no more than a crevice) and finds she can’t see anyway, but she is far too aware of Phosyne squirming ahead of her. It’s mostly sound. Sound, and stench. She hangs back, lets Phosyne get a little farther on, and then begins to crawl.

Phosyne is a small woman, and her “friend” must be similarly built, because where they seem to slide through the stone, Voyne has to force every inch she gains. Her shoulders catch on outcroppings. Her hips need to be twisted this way and that to navigate sharp turns. She feels too large, hemmed in, crushed.

The stone, at least, is cold, blessedly cold, and Voyne takes a moment to press her burning cheek against it, eyes closed. Ahead of her, she hears Phosyne crawling, and the unsettling nothingness of their companion’s movements beyond. She focuses on Phosyne to try to block out the nothing. She edges forward a few more feet.

Her head collides with rock.

She hisses, ducking, and tries to feel out the path ahead of her, but comes up with only stone. Stone and stone and more stone. No gap at all. She can hear Phosyne ahead of her, but can’t reach her.

Her entire body goes hot, then freezing cold, and her headache feels like it will split her skull apart. She gasps for breath, retreats.

“Ser Voyne?” Phosyne calls.

She doesn’t stop until she’s back in the keep, dry heaving, curled up on herself like she’d been in the cistern. Somewhere behind her, there’s movement, and then Phosyne is beside her, a hand hovering over her shoulder, unsure if she trusts Voyne enough to touch.

“What’s happening?” Phosyne asks. “What are you feeling?”

“There was no tunnel,” Voyne says, because she doesn’t know how to describe the sickness in her now. She doesn’t want to tell Phosyne that she craves honey on her lips with a fervor that scares her. That she wants to see ringed irises, not Phosyne’s flat gray eyes. She wants the Lady. She wants to run to Her, fall at Her feet, and she’s almost too far gone to feel horror at the image.

“But I was ahead of you,” Phosyne says, and, at last, touches Voyne’s shoulder. The contact sends a jolt through Voyne. She pulls away, afraid of what she might do if she doesn’t put distance between them.