She knows them. She knows them, because she cleaned their icons for years, knelt at their feet, offered up praise and processed the honey from the hives painted in their colors. The Warding Saint, so similar to Ser Voyne in appearance, but richly ornamented; the Absolving Saint, all silvered and earnest, head bent to listen to every whispered word; the Loving Saint, one hand curled below his chin, fine fingers sliding back and forth against his jawline, enticement and comfort both; and the Constant Lady, sitting statue-straight in Her chair, only a breath away from looking up and seeing Phosyne staring.

Her heart gives an unexpected pang of recognition, of longing.

A young boy tends to the fire, then runs to fetch food from the kitchens. And there is food, a whole spread of it, not just dried meat. Phosyne thinks she smells verdancy, then shakes it off; she’s too far away.

But she does see green.

There are vegetables on those plates. Her mouth waters; her stomach cramps. She knows exactly how everything on that table would taste in her mouth, and her mind shrieks at her to force her way inside, to gorge herself. It had been easier to starve when there was so little to eat, and so little that appealed. But these vegetables are plump and fresh, not dried and stored through the winter, somehow uneaten until this very moment at the height of summer.

Fresh ones, not grown in the castle gardens, because those have all been picked clean. Nothing to flower, nothing to fruit.

They’re from somewhere else.

When? How? Perhaps Phosyne missed the moments the gates were raised, but for somebody to have reached them at all without cries of death out on the walls—no, she’s missing something.

Phosyne’s rotting breath fills her nose, and is acrid enough to make her duck down, take shelter, instead of staring like a desperate fool. Her stomach riots, but her higher faculties resume control. Green means outside. These strange visitors, then, have come from outside and have brought offerings. So many offerings that the tables looked ready to groan.

A miracle. Food, and the hand of what appears to be the Constant Lady.

And yet, no sign of the Priory.

For just a moment, she thinks to run to Jacynde and ask if she, too, can feel the wrongness. If that’s why she keeps her distance. Of course, that presumes she can run, and that Jacynde’s creatures would let her near.

Still, she makes herself stand up. Makes herself leave all that bounty, and staggers to the walls for a closer look at the world beyond.