There is no chance of survival or triumph here, and though Treila is stubborn and hungry for satisfaction, she’d rather live short one finger than die sulking and lurking in a castle gone mad.

Pity about Phosyne, but really, Treila doesn’t need her anymore.

She douses the candle.

Near-darkness folds around her, cool and enticing, and she wets her lips. Tucks the wax into her pocket and approaches the crack.

“Hello, clever,” it breathes. “I missed you.”

Treila shivers and plants her hands against the rock, one on either side of the fissure. “And I, you,” she returns, though it’s not true in the slightest. The lie is sweet on her tongue.

Her creature laughs, delighted, either without guile or adoring her own. “And will you feed me this time? It’s not so nice, to tease.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “But first, a few questions. I want to know the shape of your teeth before they pierce my skin.”

“Clever, clever,” he sings. “Ask away.”

“And what will I owe you for answers?”

“Somebody has been teaching you,” he replies. His tone has shifted. Treila can’t discern if he’s irritated or afraid.

And that is certainly an answer, all on its own. She doesn’t think her creature knows about the castle’s guests.

She doesn’t think it’s the Loving Saint on the other side of that gap, waiting for her to flinch.

Treila rolls her gaze castle-ward. “We have visitors,” she says. “Strange visitors. They say it is eat or be eaten.”

The crack hisses. Seethes. It’s for just a moment, but the sharp stench of iron accompanies it, lingers even when the noise is gone and Treila wonders if she really heard it.

“Your questions?” he asks, sounding normal once more.

“Your price for answers?”

A pause. “The questions will pay for the answers.”

She thinks that the price may have changed, just a little, now that he knows there’s competition aboveground. Another successful feint; her lungs burn with satisfied arrogance.

“Will it hurt very much?” she asks, and leans in once more. Slides her hands closer to the gap.

He makes a pleased sound now. This is far more to his liking. “Yes,” he says. “Oh, yes.”

She shivers again, but keeps up the slow stroke of her palms on rock. “And will I survive it?”

“It’s just a finger,” he says, as if that answers the question.

She waits him out. She stops where she is, hands only a few inches from the divide. She waits for him to protest, to realize this is more negotiation than interrogation. It doesn’t matter that she knows his answer; it matters that he gives it.

“Yes,” he says at last. “You will survive it.”