Moonhawk lives. I may withdraw from time to time, and be subject to meddlings, but I live. Lute lives too, though they deny it. For that matter, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza lives. I swear that if you ever in life attempt an unreasonable suicide again I will abandon you forever! They’ve pretty well got me walled out, you know, but then they’ve got a couple dozen full strength Sisters working on this. Don’t fight them with your magic, child: they must believe it’s all mine! Now, if you can use your head—”

In the darkness Priscilla moved, tripped on the splintered backrest as she looked at the light on the wall. The moon was nearly to the zenith—the touch of silver light might move down the wall another handspan or two but…

“Lady Moonhawk, guide me!” said the girl, but she was already moving. She pushed the bench toward the spot of moonlight on the wall carefully. Then she hurried, bare feet soundless on the cold stone, to the backrest.

It was heavy, but it was long enough. She climbed onto the bench. It swayed slightly, but would surely hold. Then she ruthlessly twisted the ends of her hair into a quick braid, and pulled the braid into the cracked wood at the end of the backrest.

She swayed and missed the spot the first try, and the next—each time wincing as the end of the impromptu pole fell away from its target, straining hair roots unmercifully.

The third time she came close, but her braid fell from the pole. Her arms were cramped and the back of her neck ached. She was sweating and shivering at once as she tugged her hair into the splinters. Somehow it was the other side of that chantpage she saw…”less the weight, more easily sold.”

“I’m crazy,” she said. “They’re right. I’m crazy—”

But the fourth time did it. The wide end of the stick landed in the midst of the patch of moonlight and she twisted it in her hands to expose the braid to the silver light.

Nothing happened. She’d expected—