“Because what kind of human asks for a finger in return for safe passage?”

Phosyne’s gaze drops to Treila’s hands. Five fingers on each. No blood on any of them. She isn’t sure whether she’s relieved or disappointed.

Treila sees her looking and clenches her fingers into fists. “It only spoke while the candle was extinguished. When I relit the candle in an attempt to see its face, the gap was empty. I’ve left it burning down there, but I need tools. Answers, of some kind. I need to get out of here.”

“And what do you think I can give you?” Phosyne asks. “I can clean water. I can light a candle. Beyond that . . .”

“How does it work?” Treila demands.

“What?”

“All of it. How does it work? You say you cleaned the water? How did you figure that out?”

“It’s hard to explain. How do you untangle madness from reality?”

Treila scowls at the echo.

Phosyne tries to smile. It doesn’t work. “I can show you my notes, but they won’t make sense. None of it makes sense, not the way the Priory’s constructions do. It’s . . . intuition. Uncontrolled intuition. Hard to guide. Hard to explain. Hard to understand, even for me. You need a pick, not me.”

“Horseshit,” Treila says.

Phosyne frowns. “Excuse me?”

“That’s all horse shit. That you don’t know how it happens. You’re telling me that you wander your way into miracles that can be repeated by others, but you don’t know how they work?”

“I can tell you instructions. I can’t tell you how I know them.”

“You’re lying. That isn’t how the world works.”

“I’m Ser Leodegardis’s madwoman,” Phosyne reminds her. “I have never claimed to be anything else.”

“Well, you need to be,” Treila snaps. She begins to pace. “What do you need, to be able to focus? What little is left in this damned place, I can get it for you.”

“It’s not a matter of resources. I’ve already been given everything, don’t you see? It either happens or it doesn’t, with barely even intent behind it,” Phosyne says angrily, too tired to think better of it. “I didn’t ask for the Constant Lady to arrive!”

Treila’s eyes widen. Her mouth falls open. Her brow draws together, and Phosyne realizes with a lurch that she has badly miscalculated. Offering to help solve the mystery of the saints would have been one thing, but now she has taken ownership of the whole mess. She feels a noose around her throat, or maybe Ser Voyne’s fingers.

“They’re here because of you?” Treila asks.

Phosyne squeezes her eyes shut and tries to fall through the floor or, failing that, a minute into the past. The world refuses to move. Time, likewise.

“You say you didn’t ask for them, but—” Treila’s voice falters. Confused. Young again.