“Ser Voyne—” Phosyne stammers out, weak hands on her wrist, trying to break her hold. Ser Voyne will not let go of her. She hauls her closer, instead, pulls her charge against her chest. Wraps her other arm around Phosyne’s waist so she can’t escape again.

Keep her away from stone, memory whispers to her, and so Ser Voyne hauls her toward the stairs. There’s too much stone around them, beneath them. She needs to get this creature to the yard.

“Please, you’re hurting me,” Phosyne protests, her legs tangling with Voyne’s. When she trips, Ser Voyne keeps her upright. When she trips again, Ser Voyne growls and pauses, only long enough to pick her up and sling her over one shoulder.

It knocks the breath from Phosyne and keeps her silent until they are outside again.

The air is hot and sodden. Her chest feels like it is weeping. Phosyne, gone blessedly still, sweats against her. The yard smells not of shit and desperation but of spices and wine. The feast, at last, has been laid out. Bodies fill the space, and Ser Voyne picks her way between them.

The great hall cannot fit everybody, of course, and so long runners of fabric, beautiful tapestries and cut-up tents, have been laid out across the upper and lower yards, forming the shadow of tables. Every runner is heaped with food, green and red and golden, chard and apples and radishes, and every type of meat besides. Roast fowl, grilled eel, pickled eggs and salted pork. There are ewers of wine, glistening in the sunlight, and all around them is the smell of bounty.

All around them are hungry, desperate faces. They stare at the food, but nobody reaches for it. They are pinned below the gaze of the Lady, who waits just outside the entrance to the great hall.

Waits for her.

Ser Voyne’s heart swells, beats double time, and she almost forgets Phosyne slung across her shoulder, until she moves to kneel at her Lady’s feet and has to shift the weight. She pulls Phosyne from her then, and lays her out like an offering before her Lady.

Phosyne stares up in—

Not love.

Ser Voyne shivers, unbidden, suddenly afraid. Why doesn’t Phosyne look upon the Lady with love? Or fear, at least? This is anger. Insult. Disgust.

Ser Voyne is reaching for her throat when the Lady intervenes.

“What a treat you have found for me, Ser Voyne,” She says, and smiles beatifically down at both of them. “So much more welcome than your last discovery.”

Blonde hair. Green eyes. Roughspun clothing. It’s almost a memory.

So is the image of a girl without a face. Is she here? Did she follow them? Or will Voyne need to go after her, round her up?