“And was this carved from Leodegardis as well?” she whispers, stomach heaving. She thinks again of the stump of his arm, and the pearlescent wrist bones on the platter the Absolving Saint last presented her with.

He is a skilled cook. Does he seek to disguise what he has made, or to rarify it?

It would taste good, she knows. So good, so easy, so succulent. A perfect bite, and the moment she swallowed, it would wipe away all the agony of her resistance. Her tongue along lips, the pantomime of a kiss—but if they are his, those lips carry with them the vows he asked of her.

Trust in Phosyne.

Protect the people.

She keeps her mouth firmly shut.

“Not him,” the Absolving Saint says, but too late to sway her; she has taken the strength she needs. She glares at him and pictures herself flaying his own lips away. His teeth are white when he speaks, too clean and perfect to be anything but fake. “I intend to savor him; he is not to be so quickly used up.”

“And neither are you,” the False Lady purrs.

“Your dogs don’t seem to know that,” Voyne spits, jerking her chin toward the door to the throne room. Those sharpened figments, those painted vicious shadows, crowd it.

“You cannot begrudge a beast its nature,” the Absolving Saint replies. “Or its joys. Why should they not frolic, like the people of Aymar we have rescued for you?”

She tries to surge up, to snap her own teeth at him, but she’s too weak. The False Lady’s hold is too firm.

“You need your strength,” the False Lady coos as She guides Voyne’s attention back with a touch. She leans back and pulls at the fabric of Her robes, until Her breast is bared. Voyne can’t look away. She stares as the monster draws one fingernail across the alabaster flesh, parts it like a fleece.

Instead of blood, golden honey oozes forth. It drips down, coats what is almost, but not quite, a nipple, a strange knot of rosy, shining flesh.

“Eat,” She says, softly. Her other hand cups the back of Voyne’s head. “Drink. Let me nourish you.”

Voyne turns away. She wants to snarl in threat, or to retch in horror, but the honey smells so good, rich and sweet, so sweet—

Was this how Phosyne felt, when Voyne pressed her to eat the comb?

“You trust in the little mouse to fetch you home again, don’t you?” the False Lady murmurs. “Just drink, and allow yourself two masters. We both want to cultivate you, Ser Voyne. You have room enough in you for both.”

“I know what loyalty is,” Voyne bites out, because only the abstraction of duty can help her.