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Death does not come all at once; it leaves many of us in the sunlight behind, to grapple with a loss that comes seemingly out of order. Our own rhythms distract us from the procession.”
“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 chews her lip. Peels up a patch of dried skin, swallows it down.
Maybe faith, when brought to life, is too much when you are drowned in it your whole life. The sustaining liquor of it suddenly made solid.
“I’m sorry,” Phosyne tells her. “I know I’m supposed to care.” Jacynde meets her gaze at last. She is frantic. She is fading. She’s on the cusp—one firm push in either direction could be her life or her death. “But I don’t.”
Putting me in that room, giving me no purpose except to learn . . . things got out of hand, I think,” Phosyne says, and feels a pang of fondness for this man.
