He lashes her with his tail, instead, then nips at her chin, and she clambers to her feet, too exhausted to serve as a chew toy.

She’s up only a few seconds ahead of the rapping on her chamber door. Her odd companions dart into their hiding spots.

Of course; it would be too much to ask, to be forgotten once more. She groans and drags filthy hands down her face, wondering if she can pretend not to have heard. Perhaps to already be asleep. The moment she opens that door, she will be lost. No more time to work unobserved, and she is no closer to her miracle. The king will not be happy, because the king doesn’t understand that if she is watched, if she is intruded upon, then the chances of her succeeding are even lower.

Still, perhaps Ser Voyne won’t stay long. Even a knight must sleep.

She hides the rotted flesh away beneath a dark earthenware bowl and hopes the lingering odor can be mistaken for something else, scrubs her hands on her apron, and goes to the door. She doesn’t bother peering out through her mirrors, because the knock comes again, and it is firm and considered. Phosyne hears no movement of metal over metal, however.

She opens the door.

Her minder looks down at her, from her vantage nearly a foot above Phosyne. She’s a broad woman, tall and made of muscle, and even in the absence of her steel plate, she is remarkably, intimidatingly solid. Phosyne instinctively takes a step back. Her eyes drop to the floor, one hand scratching at her scalp. “Well,” she says, instead of any introduction, “come in.”

She turns and goes upstairs, hoping the knight will not follow.

She’s not so lucky. Ser Voyne keeps her distance, but follows, and when Phosyne hazards a glance back, disdain is written clear across her handsome brow. She’s likely looking at the mess of the workshop, what little is visible in the gloom, and judging it lacking.

“His Majesty would have me summon food,” Phosyne says, as lightly as she can, as if that will set the knight at ease, “but I have not cracked that mystery yet, I’m afraid. How familiar are you with miracles?”

Ser Voyne does not respond. Phosyne reaches the box made of roughhewn wood that stores her few belongings. She pulls her apron off and shoves it, still dirty, into the pile. She tries to remember how to be polite. How to give the illusion of subservience even if she has no intention to actually obey.

“Because,” Phosyne continues, “miracles tend to happen when least observed, in my experience. So if you have some handwork, perhaps, or some—some polishing to do, that will serve you best, I think.” Her voice is a little shrill, but she can’t quite master it. “Serve us best.”