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“I have never in all my years,” the prioress says at last, voice grudging, pained, “seen any indication that the Lady or Her attendants give a single shit what happens to Her worshippers. And I can’t believe She would choose to start here, now, with us.”
A miracle so profound may be indistinguishable from horror. Phosyne certainly feels horrified.
“Sometimes,” Treila says, slowly, carefully, enunciating every word, “you just have to leave it all behind and start over.”
“Look. Please, look at what you’re eating,”
“If you have a way out, I would suggest you take it,” he murmurs. “Whatever the cost. You won’t have the choice soon.”
“If you stay,” he says, eyes shining in the evening light, “it is eat or be eaten. But I promise I’ll make it good.”
“I’ve already had all the rules of my life turned upside down before,” Treila says, finally. “It’s easier to keep your head when you know it’s all you can rely on.”
She doesn’t notice how she is gentler with the girls with golden hair.
