The girl’s face transforms, eyes widening, lips parting in a real smile, and Phosyne files that away for later. For now, she picks up a little lancet, pricks the tips of her forefinger and thumb right through the existing scabs.

“It also needs a little sulfur.” Her blood is sluggish, but as she rubs her fingers together, it spreads out, slickens. She takes a pinch of the foul-smelling yellow powder from a little jar and it soaks up the blood hungrily. “And a note. Can you sing?”

“A little.”

“How well do you know your hymns?”

“A little.”

Phosyne casts her a curious, appraising look, then shrugs. “The opening note of ‘On Breath,’” she says. “Can you sing it for me?”

Nothing.

Phosyne turns back to the candle, sings it herself. It’s a clear note, high, higher than feels right for this, but it does work. She feels the change in her fingers, where the bloody slurry shifts, realigns. She pinches the wick of the candle.

As she pulls her fingers up and off, it flares to life.

The girl is staring now. Phosyne picks up the candle and holds it out to her with her non-bloodied hand. “Take this down, look more closely at everything, and maybe you’ll find a way out you missed. If not, find a way to get to me again. I’ll keep thinking.”

Cautiously, the girl creeps closer and takes the candle from her. She cradles it in her hands. Tests the flame, then hisses and pulls back; it’s hot, of course. Real flame. But it continues to burn even as the girl tests it, waving the wax back and forth. No guttering, no faltering.

Phosyne sifts some of the sulfur into another, empty jar. She holds it out. “Take this, so you can douse that as needed and get it lit again.”

“Thank you,” the girl says, slipping the jar into a pocket with nimble fingers. “I assume I’m not supposed to tell anybody?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phosyne says. She grabs one of the bits of fruit, pops it in her mouth, chews. She closes her eyes in bliss. She moans a little. “But you seem like the type who’d like to hide that. The candle. You don’t want them seeing the flame, seeing where you are.”

“No, not really,” the girl agrees. Phosyne hears her move, but not toward the door. She feels warmth, a little ways from her back, and then hears the hiss of the flame extinguishing once more. “I’m Treila,” the girl says, directly behind her.

“Phosyne.” Strange, to tell somebody else her name. She hasn’t done that in a long time. It makes her feel a little more solid, or maybe that’s the fruit. She opens her eyes, leans back, looks up at the shadowy young woman.

“You should eat the honey,” Treila says, and points to the chunk of comb, now covered in dust and detritus.