“Lady,” he said, in a much softer creak, “you’ve gone away again, my lady; where have you run? Remember your catechism and your lesson, and remember them well now: this is where you come back to—you have your little escape. You’ll feel better for coming back … you remember that, Harrowhark.”
Nona whispered, “I’m sorry—I’m not Harrowhark.”
“Ay, and you’ve said that before,” said the old man. “Who are you this time, if not my Lady Harrowhark?”
Nona shut her eyes. The darkness closed in around her, unrelieved by the bar heater, and the lamps set all around, and the caged lights swinging overhead, and the press of people crammed into that long, dusty, abandoned room. She was outside the room—she was outside the great tunnel—she was looking down at the terrible dead grey-and-white surface, the great hollow pores set into rock. Then she went back down, pulled down into each cavern—the long central shaft—deeper and deeper.
Her middle thoughts crawled into her top and bottom thoughts. For a moment she thought she’d die of it.
“There’s a box,” she said, “and … there’s someone in the box who isn’t me. I’m me. I don’t know who’s in that box, not really, only—when you open it—I’ll be gone, because I can’t survive … knowing. And I think—inside that box—there’s something that looks like a girl…”
The face of the old man blurred. Paul was saying—
“Her healing mechanism’s stopped. The body doesn’t have enough of anything to keep going. Her brain’s seizing. A couple of organs have collapsed. Massive trauma. Interesting.”
“Paul,” said Pyrrha, “your bedside manner is bullshit.”
“It’s interesting. It’s not great. Nona, how do you feel?”
“Good,” said Nona. “Fine.” Honesty compelled her to say, “Worried and a little sad, but—good. I’m fine. The body’s … not.”
“Okay. Ecstatic seizure. Anyway—she’s static, not regressing. She’s not healing, but she’s not going downhill. We have to get her soul back in…”
“Now,” finished Pyrrha.
“Five minutes ago, for preference,” said Paul.
Nona reached out. She found Camilla’s wrist—a wrist she had loved so keenly, attached to hands that had bathed her and flipped the pages of magazines to read to her and spooned out food she didn’t want to eat. She looked up into the face of the woman who was gone, which had been shared by a man who was also gone, a face taken by someone new. She said—
“The more I go back—the more I’m made to go back … it’ll hurt her. She wasn’t made for it, she’s not … not the right shape.”
“Don’t talk. Don’t stress yourself,” said Paul, but Nona didn’t want to be interrupted.
“I might not help you when … I’m back,” she said, not quite understanding I. “I’ll be different. I’ll remember everything … I’ll remember the thing I’m trying to forget. And Palamedes—I won’t love him. I won’t love Camilla, or Pyrrha, or Hot Sauce, or even Noodle. I won’t love anything … I won’t know how. I won’t be me at all, or … I’ll be the me who knows the thing, and knowing the thing means I’m not Nona—I’m someone else.”
Paul, practical, clasped one of her hands between them, and used the other to rub a rough section of black frieze over her sides to try to warm her up.
“Okay. Don’t worry,” they said.
Nona felt hot and cross.
“I’ve just told you why I’m worried, in detail, and I think that matters quite a lot.”
“Camilla and Palamedes were loved by Nona,” said Paul. “Pyrrha was loved by Nona. It’s finished, it’s done. You can’t take loved away. We loved you too. Palamedes and Camilla loved you.”
Pyrrha was there too, floating into view above Nona’s head, in the darkness. Her mouth was set in that unmistakable need-a-cigarette shape.
“Don’t worry, kiddie,” she said tiredly. “I’ll keep loving you—my problem is I don’t know how to stop. And, you know … who you are … were … you’re capable of more than you think, right now. I liked you. He liked you—Gideon liked you. My necromancer and I always liked you … and hey, what’s like except a love that hasn’t been invited indoors?”