But then Jacynde’s expression hardens. “My faith does not waver,” she spits. “And you are not that which I serve.”

The Lady’s lips curve in a perfect painted frown as She picks up a goblet of wine and holds out one fine hand. The Loving Saint rises and gives Her a piece of weeping honeycomb. He has pulled it from one of the skeps, taken from Jacynde’s girls and now buzzing with life. She has a flash of memory: a comb dripping gold onto Phosyne’s hands. Phosyne. Voyne should be with her. Watching her. And then the thought is gone, and it is all Voyne can do to keep her eyes trained on the Lady as honey slides down Her pale skin, drips into the wine.

“That can be righted. Kneel, sweet child,” the Constant Lady says, raising Her eyes to Prioress Jacynde. Jacynde moves as if to look away, then stops, caught. Voyne knows what she sees, those impossible rings of color. But unlike Voyne, she remains standing. She backs away. She turns as if to flee.

The Warding Saint rises from his seat and seizes one arm. The Absolving Saint takes the other. They hold her gently, so gently, their fingers barely pressing into her arms. Jacynde doesn’t fight, but weeps.

The Lady raises the cup to her lips.

Jacynde drinks. Her eyelids flutter.

This isn’t right.

Cold burns down through Voyne’s spine, snapping hard against the heat of the room. Her fingers close over Cardimir’s knife. It isn’t a sword, but it will do. She bares her teeth and lunges for the Constant Lady.

The Warding Saint steps in between them. Voyne’s blow lands on armor that rings strangely in the sudden silence of the hall, and the blade skips, jumps, cuts into the exposed divot of the inside of the saint’s elbow. A roar rips from the Warding Saint’s placid face, and then he catches her by the jaw, and stares into her eyes.

And Ser Voyne is on her knees again, and it is the Constant Lady bending over her.

She hears the buzzing of bees inside her skull as the Constant Lady gazes into her eyes. The spiraling colors seem to dance, and Voyne strains upward, lips parted, thoughts all in disarray. Did she really lunge with the knife? There is no knife in her fingers. She does not smell blood. The Warding Saint still sits at the table, speaking with the king.

Jacynde is prone upon the floor, and her nuns have joined the feast.

The Constant Lady strokes Voyne’s cheek, and Voyne trembles at Her touch. “Be still,” She murmurs. “Breathe. Breathe for me, Ser Voyne.”

The righteous fury bleeds from her so swiftly she doesn’t notice its passing, and she is filled, instead, with yearning. Her lungs work to a steady beat. Inhale. Exhale. The Lady smells of honey.