But before she can reach Jacynde, the icon of the Constant Lady rises into the air, four nuns taking their positions to bear her gilded palanquin. The poles sit heavy on their slender shoulders, and two of them falter, swaying slightly, their heads no doubt rushing from lack of food and the heat of midday. But they rally, urged on by the thick perfume of the box. It’s old now, a bit stale, but still strong, soaked into the preserved flowers that are heaped around the statue itself. Only the Lady’s elongated, stylized face peers out from its desiccated bower, pure white around the jaw and hairline, fading to the brilliant goldenrod of crushed dandelions on Her cheeks and lips. Her eyes are wide open, the irises concentric rings of red and blue and green, and Her lips curve into a beatific smile.

Despite the circumstances, the Priory has kept Her immaculate. The dried flowers are a much better option than none at all, and the horsehair wig that tops the statue has been kept combed and carefully braided. The clockwork that allows Her to lift one hand in benediction still moves when the nun at the back turns the crank tucked out of sight. The small skep that rests in the Lady’s lap hums with activity, bees climbing out and wriggling inside, but no honey leaks from it. It is a blazing beacon of order in a world threatening to abandon it, and Ser Voyne finds herself kneeling again before it, shivering.

She should probably focus her attentions and her prayers on one of the saints. It is said they intercede more readily, and the Constant Lady has now soaked in their collective adoration for two hours, while the saints have watched on from their smaller litters, less elaborately decorated. She should be prostrating herself before the Warding Saint, to beg for the continued strength of their walls, or pressing a kiss to the silvered lips of the Absolving Saint, confessing to her impulsive demand to be allowed to ride for help. She has no need of the Loving Saint, but even he would be a better option, more human, more likely to do more than observe.

But Ser Voyne wants nothing more than for her world to make sense again, so she gazes up at the Lady’s ringed eyes, and prays.