“But mortal hands may.” Phosyne indicates Edouart and Simmonet with a flick of her gaze.

“They may.” The Lady does not look happy, to give these concessions, but She does give them. Her generosity makes Treila nervous.

“And yet you did not have them pull the blade out.” There’s a hint of childlike wonder in Phosyne’s voice that does not match the fierce pride in her eyes as she looks back up at the Lady. “Because they can’t either, can they?”

The Lady does not respond.

“But you think I can. So rephrase your offer. You will give me anything I ask for, if . . .”

She has reworded it herself. The Lady knows it, too. She tenses. She says nothing.

Phosyne huffs a small laugh.

“Send your scavengers away,” Phosyne murmurs, barely loud enough for Treila to hear, “and leave me to think. And then the two of us can speak again.”

Treila half expects the Lady to strike out at Phosyne. To physically haul her from Voyne’s body, to threaten, to assault. But instead, She inclines Her head. “Always clever, little mouse,” She repeats.

She lifts a hand.

In the next moment, the chapel is empty, save for Phosyne, Treila, and the pallbearers, who are as still as statues, heedless of anything outside their skulls.

And Voyne, of course.

Without the audience, the chapel feels larger. Outside, the sun is near the horizon somewhere out of sight; Treila can’t tell if it’s dawn or dusk, if either has any meaning anymore. Whichever it is, it’s made the bees quiescent.

Phosyne returns to the plinth. Her fingers hover over the dagger, then over the gleaming plate covering Voyne’s chest. Her gaze is fixed on Voyne’s face, as if she is waiting for an answer.

“I know you’re there,” Phosyne says. It’s not aimed at Voyne.

Treila flinches.

“Come out, please,” she adds, voice softening. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

Treila rises from her sticky nest, but takes only two steps, just enough to be visible around the pillar. The pallbearers do not look up.

Phosyne finally looks away from Voyne, taking Treila’s measure.

Treila’s clothing is stiff with blood.

“It was me,” she says, before Phosyne can accuse. Easier, to take the blame directly, than to wait for Phosyne to put the pieces together.

More dangerous, though; Phosyne’s expression twists into a livid snarl. Treila braces, in case she lunges.

But they are different creatures. Phosyne’s weapon is not her body. And that does nothing to dull the edge of her voice as she murmurs, “You took what was mine, Treila.”

If anything, it makes Treila more afraid.

“Yours?” Treila breathes. No, mine, she thinks.

And at that, the dark cloud on Phosyne’s brow breaks. It doesn’t disperse, though, merely fractures. Pain flashes through. Cautiously, Treila comes closer. Holds out a hand.

“Yours?” she repeats, a question now instead of an argument.