But then Ser Voyne’s brow crumples in that sweet confusion Treila has been waiting for, the same confusion she wore the last time they sat in this garden. The confusion of realization, of shock. Treila draws back reflexively, then realizes that Ser Voyne’s attention is now fixed on something behind her. She turns and sees the Constant Lady, standing at the entrance to the garden. She holds a humming skep in Her hands, and She is looking straight at Treila with fury in Her multicolored eyes.

Treila is on her feet in an instant, ready to fight, but determined instead to kneel.

She’s had too many long years where bowing her head has been the only way to save her neck. She’s well-practiced.

“My Lady,” Ser Voyne says, in the exact intonation she had used when asking Treila why she was on the ground, and Treila winces. The world comes back into its proper orbit, everything once more in focus. Of course. Of course Ser Voyne did not see Treila and think of little Lady de Batrolin—she thought of the Constant Lady.

Though the Lady is arrayed in layered finery, and Treila cowers in the dirt in a drab smock, missing a stocking. Aside from their blonde hair, Treila can’t see the similarities.

Now that they’re both in view, it’s clear Ser Voyne can’t, either. The confusion falls from her eyes, and she goes to the Lady, kneels at Her feet. The Lady’s gaze bores into the crown of Treila’s bowed head a moment longer, and then She turns, fabric whispering over Her feet. She lets go of the buzzing skep with one hand, places it atop Ser Voyne’s head. She murmurs something Treila cannot hear.

Cannot hear the words of, at any rate. Treila strains to pick up the tone, hackles up, ready to flee if she must.

But whatever fury Treila thought she saw is gone, or never existed at all. She hears warm tones, soft murmurs.

She glances up in time to see the Constant Lady kissing Ser Voyne’s lips.

Treila makes herself look away. She fights to control herself, shame and embarrassment burning hot in her blood. It takes long, desperate minutes for her to feel steadier in her skin again, and by then, Ser Voyne is long gone, at the heels of her new mistress.

Bewitched. Seeing nonsense. Speaking nonsense.

She should be grateful to have this cobwebbed veil snatched back from her eyes so swiftly. She doesn’t have time for this. She needs to go find Phosyne again, and perhaps now the heretic will have calmed down enough for Treila to demand more of her.