But Ser Voyne does not answer, not immediately, and Treila feels her hand tense against her fingers. Ser Voyne turns, finally, to see who she has been speaking with. Treila freezes, considers, then turns her head as well. She pushes her blonde curls out of the way, tucks them behind one ear, twisted by a scar from a knife. She knows her cheek is visible now, the line of her nose. The patrician arc of her brow.

Treila hears her sharp intake of breath. She forces herself not to smile.

“Do I know you?” Ser Voyne asks.

And finally, Treila looks up. She meets the troubled gaze of the woman who took everything from her without a lick of hesitation or regret. She shapes her expression into one of fear, of sadness.

She sees the spark of recognition.

The confusion.

And for a moment, she is caught. Caught by how she thrills to Ser Voyne’s attention after all these years, and caught, too, by the pain glinting in those familiar eyes.

But she can’t stay. Staying would be too kind. Treila untangles their hands and flees, knowing Ser Voyne cannot follow, because the leash is, as ever, tight around her throat.

10

10

Phosyne thinks she might be dying.

Her face is flushed, and her skin feels tight with dehydration, but she’s pissed into her bucket six times today, and the fumes are only a little stronger than usual. Water does not help, not any longer than it takes to swallow it, and when she rests, head pillowed on her arms atop her workbench, she smells the sickly sweet stench of rotting fruit, though she hasn’t eaten fruit in months. Her head pounds. Ser Voyne is staring at her, watchful and exhausted, and Phosyne can’t put one thought in front of the other long enough to figure out where her latest experiments have once more gone wrong.

The sulfur bought her a few steps forward. Even Ser Voyne was forced to admit that a candle that could burn unceasing without consuming the wax beneath it was a miracle. But it is not the correct miracle. Phosyne has managed the impossible once again, but cannot bridge the gap between the fire and her belly.

She has squandered what little time they all have left. They need food. She is desperate for it, and cannot for the life of her see the path forward. All she has left is longing. A prayer on her lips for sustenance.

“Eat,” Ser Voyne says, and Phosyne looks up, startled, to find the broader woman towering over her. She has put a plate in front of her. Phosyne frowns at it. A scrap of meat, as usual, but there is honey, too, a bit of leaking comb.

She hasn’t been allowed honey since she left the Priory. Jacynde’s people know not to give it to her, and it is hardly given out in rations.

She looks up at Ser Voyne, confused.