They reach the final curve of the staircase without issue, and Phosyne sways on her feet, exhausted, as she takes the last turn.

Prioress Jacynde lies motionless in front of her door.

Her skin is as red with heat as when Phosyne last saw her, her brow as paper-dry. She is alive; of that much, at least, Phosyne remains certain. But how she came to be here makes less sense. There’s no sign of the young nun—or anybody, for that matter. There is only Jacynde, eyes shut, body still except for the fluttering of her pulse in her throat.

Behind her, Ser Voyne swears and takes a step back. No doubt thinking of the chapel, remembering now with a clearer mind what it was like to carve out the woman’s tongue. “I—I can’t—”

“Then don’t,” Phosyne says. She thinks. They can’t just step over the body, leave the prioress here alone. And she suspects Voyne will adjust, once the shock has subsided. “She needs water. I guess we are starting from there after all.”

It’s probably not safe for Ser Voyne to go to the cisterns alone, but it’s not that much safer if Phosyne goes with her, either. Or for Phosyne to go on her own. But it will give them more of the lay of the land, of how many sleeping bodies have fallen scattered and strange across the yard.

“Consider it reconnaissance, as well?” she adds, making sure to force her voice into a questioning lilt at the end, to make sure it isn’t a command.

A glance over her shoulder shows Ser Voyne looking relieved. “Yes,” she agrees. Looks down at Jacynde a moment, swallows heavily. And then she rolls her shoulders. “I’ll be back soon.”

She looks like a knight again when she strides off. It’s comforting. Phosyne watches until she disappears around the curve of the stairs.

Right. Jacynde, then.

Phosyne pushes open her door and drags the prioress’s body inside and over to her own pallet. It is surely nothing like the bed Jacynde is used to, Phosyne is only too aware now of how it stinks, but she has no other real options. She gets a rag, dips it in the little water she still has, and lays it against the side of Jacynde’s mouth. She’s no doctor, but she figures that should help. At the very least, if this insensate sleep is anything but natural, it should break through it.

But the water does not, in fact, miraculously restore the woman to consciousness.

With a groan, Phosyne sinks to her knees beside the woman and mops the water over her exposed skin. There’s no fresh blood around her mouth, at least. Whatever Voyne did is done.