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Slowly, cautiously, Phosyne stands. Her robes cling to her thighs, sweat-stuck to the skin below, but a twitch of her hand sets them right. She doesn’t know if she actually touches the silk to do it.

“An improvement, to be sure,” the Lady says with a smile. “Look at you. So imperious. I expected it would take you far longer to find a throne, little mouse.”

I only took it because—

The protest dies in her throat. Because why? Because Voyne needed her to? No. Because Phosyne wanted to see what would happen? Closer, and she feels horrible for it.

She says nothing, tamping down the swirl of questions. She can’t afford weakness, not in front of the Lady.

“Are you going to flee back to your room?” the Lady asks. “I saw your work. Very nicely done. Your beautiful little world has strong walls of its own now.”

She is leading up to something. Phosyne knows it, but can’t divine what it is. “I am not fleeing,” she says, meeting the Lady’s gaze. Her eyes remain those unnerving rings upon rings of color. “But I am leaving.” Phosyne steels herself, goes to step past Her.

The Lady reaches out and touches her wrist.

It’s a light touch, not enough to stop her, but it makes Phosyne falter all the same.

“Stay a moment,” the Lady says, voice quiet, for her ears only. “You and I, we have much to discuss.”

“I want no more lessons.”

The Lady makes a small, doubting sound, but doesn’t push. “Are you afraid, little mouse?”

“Of course.” She sees no point in lying. The windows are full of shifting impossibilities. Her stomach remains all but empty. She thinks she hears screaming from the yard, though it’s hard to tell; it might be singing. “I’ve seen your hunger.”

“I sup on flesh and bone, petal and root, the same as you, but more rarified things besides: lust and longing, fear and ecstasy.”

The madness in the yard below. The dancing of the people of Aymar, their hedonistic dissolution. All of it to feed Her and Her creatures.

“You play with your food,” Phosyne says.

“I season my meat, and keep it occupied. I give it fertile fields to fat itself. You will see soon, little mouse. You will come to understand the satisfaction of having everything available to your teeth. I can see your hunger, too.”

And Phosyneishungry. But it’s not the hunger of an empty stomach. It’s the need to taste. To chew. To consume. She wants to indulge.

She tamps down on the urge. That is what led her to that throne, what led her to command Voyne, to take what she wanted with no thought to their surroundings, the danger they were in.

Phosyne realizes she is trembling.

She stays perfectly still as the Lady slides Her hand up Phosyne’s wrists to the sleeves of her robe, fingering the fabric. She makes herself watch the progression of those pollen-stained fingertips, and as she does, she realizes these robes are familiar. They are very much like Jacynde’s. They are very much like the Lady’s.

When did she do that?Didshe do that, or did they change when she wasn’t looking, the way the painted faces watching them move whenever her gaze slips off them?

Phosyne doesn’t remember. The trembling is getting worse. She must be stronger than this, if she is going to walk out of here in one piece.

“Do you fancy yourself Jacynde’s replacement?” the Lady asks.

She flinches. She can’t help it. “No.”

“And yet she is dead behind this throne you’ve taken for your own, with Ser Voyne’s sword straight through her.”

“I didn’t place her there.”

“But you had taken her into your care. Did you abandon her, little mouse, to fend for herself? That is a cruel thing to do. You surprise me.”

“I needed to build my walls,” Phosyne whispers.

“And you did not want to take on an obligation to somebody else.”Quiet, a moment. Even the bees seem to go still. The Lady touches Phosyne’s jaw, still featherlight, and applies just a little pressure. An indication, a request.