There are innumerable references to fire in the books she has accumulated since she first became aware of the unseen world that seems to lie parallel to their own, within reach for those who know to search for it. They are worn and dirty things missing pages, passed from hand to hand, filled with knowledge that in her Priory days she would have mocked as fanciful, imaginative forays into nothingness. She knows better now. Some of the books, she thinks, are correct, though she can’t figure out how to utilize the knowledge within; other parts are wrong, but there is some truth to them anyway.

Her teachers in the Priory would have demanded proof. Measurement, replicable observation, a mechanism of action. And she understands the appeal. Certainty feels safe. But certainty is also limiting. Certainty did not purify Aymar’s water.

These texts, with their parables, their fictions, their outlandish claims, are exactly the opposite. And yet with enough study, she has teased meaning from them. She has made tangible changes to the world. She must keep searching for the next revelation.

One of her fragments, a haphazard translation of the works of somebody only credited as “the weeping philosopher”—a man who died of œdema some six hundred years ago at least—describes the soul as measured in fire and water. Water, for soft growing things; fire, for the element that transcends death. An everliving flame, not constant, but shifting in its parts, some extinguishing, some springing up to life. There is something there, she thinks.

Occasionally, Voyne is called away. It’s never for long, but Ser Leodegardis occasionally sends for her. The king, less often. Phosyne can see how each summons tears at her. She longs to leave, but hates to abandon her post.

Three days after the attack, Voyne is summoned just after dawn. As the door closes, Phosyne feels herself unwind. It is too much, living under such strict and hateful observation, even when Voyne stays out of her way and allows inspiration to guide her. Alone, Phosyne leans against her worktable and closes her eyes.

Her stomach cramps and ripples. Terrible, wretched body; it reminds her, ceaselessly, that to pursue the fire distracts her from the ultimate goal of food.

They are the same, she tells her belly. Hush.

Before she can feed herself some scrap, there comes a soft knock. Not the king’s. Not Voyne’s. She holds still, hoping that silence will make whoever it is disappear. She doesn’t want to look through her spyglass.

Sweat beads upon her brow. Is it getting hotter in here?

The door opens. There is nothing to stop anybody’s entrance with Voyne gone. Suddenly afraid, Phosyne looks up.

Prioress Jacynde stands there, in her raiment. It’s the simpler version, for working days, but it is still cleaner and more elaborate than anything Phosyne has worn recently. How she can still starch her robes, Phosyne could not say.