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Didget her excommunicated, eventually, along with all the rest that had gone wrong.

And where was her faith in all of that? There was no moment when it stopped, when she decided she no longer believed in the Lady or Her saints. She isn’t even sure that shedoesn’tbelieve in them (the actual concept of them, not whatever is wearing their costumes). It just hardly seems to matter anymore.

At any rate, now Jacynde is just a woman, and a half-dead woman at that. Phosyne doesn’t know what to do. If the water doesn’t work, must she try something else? A way to restore vitality, or belief, or holiness?

That might be it. Jacynde’s holiness, her proximity to the ineffable, has been forcibly stripped away.

That doesn’t give Phosyne much hope that she can fix it.

Her musings are interrupted by a knock at her chamber door, and she forces herself up on creaking knees. Sunlight filters through the window in the loft with the character of midday, though Phosyne doesn’t think it’s been half so long as that.

But what does she know? She’s mad, isn’t she?

At any rate, Ser Voyne has returned, and it’s time to get to work. She stumbles to the door and hauls it open without checking.

The Lady stands before her.

Her saints are in attendance as well. They fill the small hallway, and Phosyne hopes that Ser Voyne is far, far away, isn’t already on her way back.

“Hello, little mouse,” the Lady says, smiling. Her eyes are bright. Phosyne meets them for half a second, then looks away, chest burning. There’s too much Phosyne wants to know, wants to ask her. Wants to believe. “May we come in?”

“No,” Phosyne says.

Phosyne wishes she’d said the same to the king, when he called, because that one word actuallyworks. The Lady doesn’t move. She doesn’t even step closer to try to force the issue.

She does, however, peer over Phosyne’s shoulder. “What a beautiful little world you have for yourself,” She murmurs. Her tone is gentle. Genuine. Intrigued. Not mocking, like Phosyne thinks it should be. Anybody’s would be. Even Treila, who hadn’t necessarily beenbothered, hadn’t actually approved of the squalor.

And the Constant Lady, by contrast, appears delighted. She is looking up, now, and Phosyne turns to see Her gazing at the corkindrill hanging from the ceiling. And then, crouching and tilting Her head, up at the bit of occluded window in the loft, which Phosyne is surprised She can even see from there.

Phosyne straightens her spine. The Lady is, if nothing else, an enemy. That much has been clear since Phosyne first set eyes on Her, cemented in the horror of the feast. That she now feels flattered and wants to preen is immaterial. “Have you come to negotiate?” she asks, doing her best to sound strong. She thinks she sounds a little like Ser Voyne. Or Treila; Treila would know how to handle this creature.

“Negotiate?” the Lady echoes curiously. “I simply wanted to speak again, now that you’ve had some time to marinate.”

Phosyne’s skin pebbles.

“This castle—we can give you nothing,” Phosyne says, taking the measure of the Lady and all three of Her attendants in turn as she speaks. “We are dying. There’s no way out. So why have you come here? Deliverance?”

The Lady laughs. “Of course not.”

Well, at least that is settled.

“But do you really think you can give us nothing?” the Lady continues. “You have breath enough, still. Life.”

“Life that you are purchasing with your feast,” Phosyne tries.

The Lady smiles.

“Life, and love, and fear,” She agrees. “And power. There is power here, as well. Let us in, little mouse.”

The flattery makes Phosyne shiver as much as the threat. She opens her mouth to say no all the same.

“Let us in, and we will help you with your guest.”

Phosyne goes stiff. She is a poor liar, down to the bone, even before she glances over her shoulder at Jacynde. “I don’t need help,” she tries anyway.

“I smell fever,” the Warding Saint says. “Sun fever—it is dry and scorched.”

The Lady smiles. “Jacynde de Montsansen?”