“Phosyne,” Jacynde greets. The name sits ill on her lips; she still remembers calling her Sefridis, and Sefridis was obedient and useful and small. Well, Phosyne is still small, she supposes. That part hasn’t changed.

“Your Radiance,” Phosyne replies.

“I have come to see for myself what you do with my candles,” Jacynde says, looking doubtfully at Phosyne’s workspace. Her nose wrinkles with distaste. “You certainly do take liberties with your independence.”

No clean cell for Phosyne anymore, no orderly calculations, no tending to the beehives. Not even a steady pattern of wake and sleep; Phosyne often works through the night, especially when Voyne sleeps.

She must have some visceral memory of cloistered life, and yet it evades her. How did it feel, cleaning her cell? How did it feel, to be in community, to have faith? Surely any sane person would remember. Surely that cannot evaporate so fast.

But it has. All that is left are the things worn so deep into her that they are no longer feelings, but axioms. There are physical habits tied to this woman’s voice, habits that are hard to resist: ways of standing, ways of holding or avoiding gaze. Shame bubbles out of a pocket Phosyne thought long-since sealed. Her scalp itches.

She wishes, briefly, that her heart would itch instead. She thinks it was easier, when she believed.

One of the Priory candles is lit. The flame shifts in the gloom. Barely enough to work by; a waste, no doubt, to Jacynde’s eyes, because she cannot see what Phosyne has been observing.

“Congratulations,” Phosyne says, when the silence stretches, “on your success against Etrebia.”

Jacynde just looks exhausted.

“What were they?” Phosyne presses, though she doesn’t expect a true answer.

It’s not how she is supposed to talk to Jacynde. Training dictates deference. Even as a laywoman, she should be appeasing, receptive, attentive in a submissive form. Instead, she can’t help but speak to Jacynde as if they are equals.

The storm upon Jacynde’s brow shows just how poorly that is received. But Phosyne cannot stop herself.

At some point, she lost the knack.

She will never taste honey again, Phosyne remembers with a pang. This woman has forbidden it, and even if she had not—Phosyne cannot imagine allowing herself to be welcome in service. Not after their break.

“Green vitriol,” Jacynde says, finally, “partially. Some of the sisters have been working with Theophrane in his smithy, which I understand you nearly destroyed.”

Phosyne flushes and looks away. “It might have been a spark from your incendiaries,” she says, because there’s no way to explain Pneio. No way she could have caused a spark without him.

“There was no spark until they struck home on the enemy line,” Jacynde replies, dryly. “But then, I don’t expect you to understand the complexities.”

“No? And yet I cleaned the water,” she says, before she can hold her tongue.