A part of her hopes that when the Loving Saint returns, he appears just behind her. Close enough to bite the shell of her ear, whisper a greeting, and then tear her own throat out. But when, at last, he does rejoin them, he comes on foot once more, from the direction he came before. This time, the plants part and stay parted. They form a path.

And once more, he is not alone.

With him are, of all people, Edouart and Simmonet. They’re too small to lift Voyne’s weight alone, of course, so there are others too—but Treila can’t look away from them. She watches as they take Voyne’s shoulders, indifferent to the gore, indifferent even to who they are dragging away. She remembers a night that feels like a lifetime ago, when she played dice with them and listened to them wax poetic about Ser Voyne’s strength. Her glory.

They don’t care, now. It’s all been washed out of their brains. Ser Voyne is just an object in their hands.

No better than meat.

43

43

Phosyne, still heartsore and vertiginous, is spared the need to choose her next action when the door to the hall swings open. Behind it is the Constant Lady, in Her full raiment, alone. No saints in attendance, no human followers, just Her in all Her terrible loveliness. Some details have shifted, though, truth shining through the mask She wears. The yellow paint upon Her cheeks and lips is stained a deeper orange. The blooms woven into Her gown have grown wild with thorns.

When She walks, Her steps ring as if She is shod in metal shoes.

The ring of watchers parts to let Her through. She stops only a few feet away, languidly surveying Phosyne and her throne.

“It suits you well,” She says, brow quirked, lips pursed. “My lesson helped you, then? You’ve shed your paupers’ guise and found a place of power.”

Phosyne’s mouth curls in a snarl. She isn’t in the mood for this. She needs to go to Voyne, find out what has happened. Her hand falls away from her throat, curls around the armrest of the throne once more. “Your creatures trap me here.”

“Do they?” She glances over Her shoulder at them, lifts a hand.

They fall back, respectful of Her power. They remind Phosyne of how Aymar used to defer to Cardimir, how the nuns responded to Jacynde. There is a hierarchy, something more than a master to Her beasts.

They climb back into the window slits, block them up until there’s no light at all except for the flickering flames of the reeds. They’re burning low. How long has she been here?

“You can leave at any time,” the Lady says. She strokes one of Her thick braids. Her nails are long and sharp; were they always this way?

Or is the time for disguises long past?