Reverend Mother Mohiam wasn't sure what she'd expected to find when she finally laid eyes on Princess Irulan – perhaps a changed woman with circles under her eyes and bruises under her clothes – and perhaps she was changed. And perhaps there were bruises, but the girl – no – the woman that stood before her was utterly transformed – a vision in black lace and gauzy silk – as lightning lit the black sky behind her. But it was more than the sky and more than the dress – and was it truly black or just the light? – it was the posture – it was the face – it was the thoughts behind the face – the thoughts that were usually visible on the face that were now hidden from view with an icy smile – thunder cracked, and Gaius Mohiam smelled sulfur – oh, this was no pupil.

"Reverend Mother," said the Princess, bowing her head. The infrared light – dimmed as it was through the black clouds – should have drained her, but it didn't. This was more than makeup – there was something markedly different about the girl.

"Princess"

"It's good to see you," said the younger woman and sat down beside Reverand Mother Mohiam with an ease that quite surprised her teacher.

"You look settled."

"Yes. My husband has been quite accommodating."

"Ha! I heard rumor of a bloody reception."

"You might have thought to warn me," said the Princess, pulling her hood from her face. They could barely see the floor of the arena through the downpour.

"You seem to have done just fine without it."

"Indeed," said Irulan with a frown. "As you hoped?"

"Of course, girl. What else would I have done?" She could barely hear the crowd over the sound of the rain.

"I never know with you," said the Princess with an easy wistfulness that seemed so unlike her, the Reverend Mother could have sworn it were a modified clone sitting beside her her rather than the once-timid girl she'd known since infancy. Whenever the girl had pulled away, the distance between them was only surface level. Now it felt there were an ocean between them.

"Impertinence," muttered the crone. She wished she had something more clever to say, but the surprise of Irulan appearing as she was had thrown her. Even on her wedding day, Irulan looked like a child in her mother's clothing, but now, she wore this current gown like a second skin.

"I didn't mean to be rude," said the Princess. "I've looked forward to your visit."

"As have I."

"Would you like to use my binoculars? I brought an extra pair."

The Reverend Mother took the spectacles from Irulan without saying anything and put them to her eyes. There wasn't much to see in these conditions, and within ten seconds, the goggles fogged with mist. The crone frowned and wiped the glass with her sleeve.

"I assume you have business you wish to discuss."

"Where exactly do you think we are?"

"If you don't wish to plot, then why did you come?"

"To ensure you were still breathing."

"It's comforting to know the matter worried you."

"Don't be crass. You may have built a nest for yourself, but you know as well as I how… volatile he can be."

"Volatile," repeated Irulan. "Hmm." And then she laughed. Thunder cracked above them.

The Reverend Mother glared at her.

"Are you going to hit me, or shall we discuss what you came here to tell me?"

"Yes, I suppose we shall," said the crone with a smirk, knowing she had finally succeeded in getting under her pupil's skin. "Are you pregnant?"

"Not yet. Do you wish me to be?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Arrange to visit your father on Kaitain. We'll speak more there. It's unlikely anyone's listening over the noise of the storm, but I have matters I'd prefer not to discuss until we have the guarantee of privacy."

"Yes, Your Reverence." Normally the girl would have pushed back. Normally, she was near to bursting with thoughts that wouldn't rest until she'd spilt them. Now, it appeared she had no need to confide in her teacher. Cold. That is what the servants called her behind closed doors – yet Irulan had never seemed cold to Gaius Mohiam until this moment – perhaps because until this moment, Irulan made no attempt to guard how desperately she longed for her teacher's approval. She didn't seem to long for anything at the moment, and the Reverend Mother began to wonder if the girl had found a new confidante. It was as if Irulan had written her off entirely.

"You're cross with me."

"No"

"It makes sense that you would be. You must feel I've left you to more or less fend for yourself."

"Didn't you?" asked the Princess.

"Yes"

Irulan said nothing.

"What did you want? A kiss on the forehead?"

"How do you wish for me to answer a question like that?"

"You walk dangerously, girl," said the Reverend Mother, though she didn't hide the smile on her lips. The girl's sparring no longer carried that disagreeable hint of uncertainty. "Your usefulness wanes."

"He tried to drown me in the bathtub," replied Irulan, not softening a bit at her teacher's goading. She put the binoculars to her eyes as she spoke. "He nearly did. If I'm no longer useful, have me killed then and get on with it."

"In the bathtub, you say? Interesting. That's where he killed his mother."

"You're joking," said Irulan, turning to look at her.

"No"

"What happened?"

The Reverend Mother put her own binoculars to her eyes.

"Fine," said Irulan, "Don't tell me."

"You are cross."

"Yes," said Irulan with a scowl. "You've made it abundantly clear you see me as disposable."

"Every one of us is disposable. You should know that by now."

"More disposable. Than you led me to believe."

"Then don't be."

"I beg your pardon."

"You heard me," said the crone, turning to look at the girl. "Until this point you were a weak link. But there's strength in you yet, isn't there? Here you stand after all – after I threw you to the wolves – you should be proud of yourself, girl – and hungry to prove yourself."

"To you?"

The Reverend Mother smirked again, despite herself. She was fond of the girl – there was no doubt about that – a cat discovering her claws. "I've misjudged you perhaps. I saw your willfulness as a weakness, but it could prove to be a strength if leveraged correctly."

"How would you leverage it?"

"You think I don't trust you, girl. I'll tell you something close to the chest: I've been to see Lady Jessica."

Irulan turned to look at her.

"Yes, I thought that might interest you. She's pregnant. A girl."

"Is she?"

The Reverend Mother smiled. "We'll discuss it on Kaitain."

"Yes, Your Reverence."

The Reverend Mother sighed. "I really am relieved to see you well. I've thought of you often these past few weeks." She studied Irulan's profile in her peripheral vision.

The Princess's eyes softened behind the binoculars – just for a moment – before hardening. "How do you plan to spend the remainder of your time on Giedi Prime?"

"With the Baron. And then I'm off to Wallach IX."

"You're meeting with my husband?"

"Of course. Now that he's inherited Vladimir's role, we have business to discuss."

"Am I to know of this business?"

"Work a little harder to ingratiate yourself with your husband. Perhaps he'll wish for you to accompany him during my next visit."

"Alright."

"Don't be disappointed, girl. You're still alive. He must be warming to you."

Irulan said nothing, and Reverend Mother Mohiam decided that no good would come from continuing to talk.

"I don't really have the stomach for bloodsport. Don't trouble yourself on my behalf – I'll have a servant escort me back to the guest wing with an umbrella."

"You don't wish to honor the Baron?" asked Irulan with an edge to her voice. "He has yet to fight."

"There's been a change of plans. I suppose he failed to brief you on the order of events – I'm on my way to meet him now."

The Princess opened her mouth and then shut it. She put her binoculars back to her face. "I won't keep you."

"Enjoy the spectacle," said the Reverend Mother, knowing she was looking through foggy goggles.

"Thank you."

"Irulan"

The girl's eyes widened at the use of her given name before the flatness spread back over her expression.

"You've surpassed my expectations," said Reverend Mother Mohiam and exited the amphitheater before she had a chance to see the Princess's face react to her words.

Irulan paced about her quarters, still bristling from the arena. A weak link. That is what her teacher had called her. The storm was still inside her, though there was no evident trace of it within the mausoleum of her bedchamber.

"Soline," she called, and the girl darted in from the side room. "I'd like a glass of wine." Had her teacher simply meant to taunt her, or was she speaking the truth?

"But if you're pregnant, my lady…"

"I'm not," snapped Irulan.

The girl looked frozen in place.

"I'm not to have sedatives; I'm not to have wine – do you wish to drive me mad?"

"I – I'm sorry, my lady. Perhaps you'd like a bath."

"I don't want a bath. I want a bottle. Now."

"Y-yes, my lady."

Tonight, Irulan hated her – hated all of them. She hated them for darting around in the shadows, for never knowing when she needed company or when she needed to be left alone. She hated that she now had girls to look after when they were the ones who were supposed to be looking after her. A bath? Irulan scowled. She didn't have it in her to say, "That feels nice" when they massaged her scalp – have it in her to make eye contact. And then they'd have to redo her hair in the morning, and that was yet another thing she didn't have it in her to sit through.

A weak link. How was that her fault? It was the Reverend Mother who insisted she remain on Kaitain instead of studying on Wallach IX. To keep her from her peers – from proper instruction and then to call her a weak link –

She looked across the room at her transcriber, which seemed a poor companion at the moment, for she had no desire to write down the thoughts that swirled inside her. She wished she had Vesryn with her and immediately felt ashamed of herself for thinking of it. In addition to being wildly inappropriate, the thought was embarrassing for its desperation. She barely even knew him, and he certainly didn't know her – although she felt that he did. How disgraceful of her it would be to ask him to comfort her. Yes, she believed he was fond of her, but she knew it was his job to make her feel like he was fond of her. For all she knew, he could be looking at her the way she looked at her husband. And at that thought, another more sinister one came to her: did anybody like her?

Her father, she once thought, had liked her, but then he sold her off as easily as spice. Her sisters definitely didn't like her. The idea of her Reverend Mother secretly favoring her had always kept her motivated, but at the moment, it seemed laughable. As she combed through the years of their interactions, trying to convince herself that her teacher nursed a soft spot for her, it could be argued just as easily that her teacher discreetly detested her. She hadn't managed to make any friends on Giedi Prime in the three weeks since her arrival. Her handmaidens were terrified of her – that much was clear – though that had more to do with the environment than it had to do with her… still… she knew hadn't done much to ingratiate herself with them. Come to think of it, she still hadn't managed to learn any of their names aside from Soline.

And then there was her husband who'd thrice nearly killed her.

And yet there was a moment… just a moment… she felt a connection to her husband. And perhaps if she could feel something for a monster like that, it wasn't unreasonable to think that Vesryn might feel something for her. She liked Vesryn. It felt important to like someone – anyone – to keep herself tethered somehow to her compassion. It was practical, she reasoned, to have a crush: it was survival. She climbed onto her bed and lay down on her back.

She was stupid.

She knew she was stupid.

And what would she even say to him if he came to her bed? What would they do? She tried to imagine what it would feel like if he kissed her, but she couldn't picture it. There was no possible scenario in which he would come to her bedchamber to make love to her.

But perhaps he might come to help her dress?

That was a start. He would come to her bedchamber with a gown. That is how it would start. And she would need help with the laces, and this time, his fingers would linger on her skin as he worked, and when she turned to face him, he would look at her like he had in the dress shop, and then… she imagined his gaze changing when he looked into her eyes.

"You're not okay," she imagined him saying.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

And then, in her fantasy, she burst into tears. She would try to look away from him, she decided, but he would pull her arms away from her face.

"Wine, my lady!" said Soline as she hurried into the room, and Irulan jerked upright in bed.

"About time," she snapped, perhaps unfairly. Yes, she knew it was unfair, but she was angry at the interruption.

"I'm sorry m-my lady!" squeaked Soline.

Irulan sighed. "No. I should be the one to apologize. I shouldn't speak to you like that."

"It is an honor to serve you, my l-lady." The girl was visibly trembling.

Irulan grimaced. She knew she needed to course correct. "Soline."

"M-my lady?"

"Would you share a glass of wine with me?"

"If that would p-please you."

"It would."

Soline smiled uneasily and poured two glasses of red. Her hand was shaking so badly that when she handed one to Irulan, she spilled some on the floor. "I'm sorry!" she stammered and bent down to wipe at it with her hands. Her bandage was bleeding again, and Irulan knew she couldn't be around the girl any longer without losing her composure.

"Soline," she said as gently as she could. "You're bleeding."

"I'm sorry!"

"Go to the surgeon. Not the apprentice. The surgeon. Tell him I sent you and that I wish for him to heal you properly. With proper sedation."

"Y-you don't need to – "

"I want to. Soline. I want you to be taken care of." She sighed again. "Let me take care of you."

"Okay," said the girl in a quiet voice.

"Thank you for the wine," she said, forcing herself to look at her handmaiden. "That will be all."

Soline bowed her head and fled from the room.

Irulan took a swig of her wine. She felt guilty, and she was annoyed about it. She hadn't wanted to feel guilty on top of everything else. She finished her glass and poured herself another. She would give anything for a proper conversation – anything – anything for a conversation with someone who knew her well enough to care about her. And it was foolish, she knew, to think Vesryn might be that person, but at the moment, he seemed like her best bet.

"I'm going to take care of you," he would murmur and fold her into his arms, holding her as she trembled. And then as she tried to pull away, but he would catch her by the forearm. He would kiss her tenderly. Irulan frowned. It wasn't a tender kiss she wanted.

It wasn't even a kiss. Right now, if she was being honest with herself, she wanted to be dragged from her bed and hosed down with freezing water. She wanted to be vigorously scrubbed. She wanted to be hit in the face. She wanted to be bruised and cursed at and told what was wrong with her. Perhaps by her handmaidens, but she just couldn't picture them doing it, so perhaps by the stern-faced surgeon. Yes, she wanted someone to come at her with a scalpel and make her bleed – to cut off the parts of her that were wrong and then stitch her back together – yes, stitch her back together – that was the part that mattered.

She poured herself another glass of wine as she tried to concoct a scenario that would make Vesryn so frustrated with her that he'd be moved to violence, disliking herself more than she ever had in her entire life.

She wanted… oh Gods she wanted him to take her against the wall. In her fantasy, he didn't ask – he took – he took because he wanted to, and if he took her like that, she'd know for sure that he wanted her. And perhaps only his head would roll. It was a wicked thought – perhaps the most wicked thought she'd ever had – but she was in a wicked kind of mood. Besides – she knew she could never accept him into her bed – not without consequences. No, the only way she'd ever be with him was if he took her without asking.

She felt a throb between her thighs, and brought her hand to her sex as if pushing against her flesh could relieve some of the pressure. She closed her eyes, picturing it.

But it was her husband's face that came to her mind – his full lips – his shadowy gaze – watching her – watching her the way she wanted to be watched –

She remembered how he looked in the mirror above her as he took her, and she tried to imagine Vesryn in his place, but the feeling she was chasing seemed to lessen when she did –

Irulan let out a sigh of frustration, opening her eyes to look at her reflection in the ceiling mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a blush around her collarbone. She looked positively lewd with her knees bent and her hand between her legs.

The door opened and she yanked her hand away, sitting straight up in her bed.

"Feyd," she said as evenly as she could, "you startled me. I'd fallen asleep."

"On top of the covers?"

"I thought you might come, but I fell asleep waiting."

"You must have been dreaming," he rasped with a smirk. She could tell from his eyes that he didn't believe her.

"Yes"

"Tell me."

"About the dream?"

"Yes"

"I …" she paused, trying to think of something believable. She picked the last dream she had – the dream she kept having. "I dreamt of the Fremen girl."

Feyd's expression shifted entirely at that. "Oh?"

"I…" she paused again. She hadn't expected to tell him this. Not ever. The dreams felt sacred somehow. Intimate. "Sorry. I. Um."

He was staring at her with such curiosity, that she found herself telling him.

"I've dreamt of her several times. Since Arrakis."

His expression darkened.

"They aren't particularly eventful. Usually, she's a child."

He said nothing, so she kept talking. "I think I'm lonely."

His eyes didn't exactly soften, but the violence there seemed to dull.

"When you fought Paul Atreides, I knew I would wed the victor. I didn't know he had a lover until you spoke to it – and I suppose in another life, she would have been my rival." She paused, remembering the concubines. "I suppose I have rivals in this life. I fought one in the slave pit."

"Do you dream of that one?" he asked.

"No," she admitted. She hadn't intended to talk about this.

There was something in her husband's expression that reminded Irulan of a small boy. Cautious. Guarding something precious. Perhaps they were more alike than she'd given him credit for. She would need to be cautious with her words so as not to insult him.

"I think," she said carefully, "that he loved her. And it was clear that she loved him. You have lovers of your own, but…" she trailed off. "I'm sorry. I don't want to speak out of turn."

He didn't say anything, so she continued.

"It's hard to explain. The two of them… the way they died. The way she refused to continue on without him. The way she… the way she held her neck to keep the blood from spilling out until she'd crawled on top of him – using her last moments in this universe to cover his modesty – I don't know that you saw, but she lay atop his entrails. Only after she'd completely covered them did she take her hand off her neck – her last exertion – a gift. And I thought: that's love." She looked down, flushing. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"You respected her," rasped Feyd.

"Yes," said Irulan, "but not at first. I hated her at first." She paused again. "Perhaps hate is too strong a word. I suppose – I suppose I saw that, and I felt… small. Yes, that's the word: small. Compared to that – compared to whatever it was they shared. I never would have had a place in it. Between them. And then I watched her die. And then I felt… I don't know what I felt. I felt," she paused again. "I felt like she was someone I had much to learn from."

"She had honor," he rasped.

"Yes," said Irulan. "She did." And suddenly she felt like crying.

"If you're lonely, I can replace the handmaidens."

"No!" stammered the Princess. "I like them! It's just – they're afraid of me."

He looked at her curiously.

"Their fear makes them excellent servants, but it makes them poor companions."

He wore the same expression he'd had on the night they'd met before he escorted her to the ship.

"I would like to know you," she said then, emboldened by the wine. "We didn't choose each other, but perhaps our interests might align." She paused, but he continued to stare without speaking. "Perhaps it is improper to discuss these things, but our marriage makes you next in line for the throne."

"You said that in the tub," he rasped.

"Yes, I suppose I did." She waited for him to say something – to elaborate on the experience of the tub perhaps – but he didn't. "You asked me what would make me happy. I wish to be useful to you."

"You are."

"For more than an heir. I'm well studied. I'm trained in some respects. I can write."

"You're a Princess and a Baroness, not a scribe."

"I'm bored," she admitted.

"Bored," he repeated, and the curiosity in his face intensified.

And then a new idea occurred to her. Later, she would tell herself it was strategy, that she didn't mean her words, not really. "I should hate you. For making me fight. But I felt... more awake than I've ever felt in my life."

"You like to fight," he said. From his tone, it could have been a statement or a question – she wasn't sure.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know what I like."

"Would you like to fight again?"

"No," she said quickly. "That's not what I meant. I… I want a purpose. I need a purpose. And not a passive one. I need… something to think about. I need something to do."

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

"No"

"Thirsty?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

He stared at her. "You're upset."

"Yes"

"I thought you might need food or something to drink."

"I'm not a pet," she said flatly. "I need more than meals and water."

"Not a pet?" he asked, raising his brow.

"A whole person," she said. "Like you."

"Like me," he repeated, as if turning the words over in his mouth.

"Yes"

"Like me," he said again.

"Yes," she snapped, suddenly annoyed. "I thought you meant to torture me, but now it seems you had such little understanding of my mind that you thought I should be happy rotting away in this – "

"You asked for a garden."

She stopped to stare at him.

"You'll have it."

"A garden."

"It's underway. I could show it to you now," he said, "but then you'd know how it was made."

"I'd love to see it."

"That could ruin it."

"How?"

"You felt awake in the arena."

"What does that have to do with the garden?"

"You didn't know you would win."

"No," she said, frowning. "But you did."

"My gift to you."

"I – I don't understand."

"A worthy challenge. You felt challenged?"

She opened her mouth and then closed it. His manner of speaking was always strange to her, but she could tell he thought deeply.

"Do you want to see the garden?"

"No," she said thoughtfully, and then she changed her mind. "Yes."

"Yes?" he asked, cocking his brow.

"If I'm to be caged, I wish to see the bars plainly."

He smirked. "Follow me."

"You'd really show me?"

"If you wish."

"I…" she stayed put on the bed, suddenly wishing not to move. "I'm not sure anymore."

He turned back to look at her.

"Maybe it isn't a cage if you'd show me the bars." Her head was spinning.

He said nothing, watching her.

"I think I'm going mad," she said, and then, "Will you drink with me?"

Instead of responding, he walked past her to her bedside table and poured himself a glass of wine.

"Thank you," she said and felt suddenly awkward: this felt more intimate than anything they'd ever done before. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted. "There are so many things I want to ask you," and then she frowned. "I'm talking too much… tell me about the garden."

"What do you wish to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell me about it."

"You asked for windows. I'd give them to you, but I thought you'd want to sleep outdoors."

"You mean, in the garden?"

"It has an artificial atmosphere. Wind. Rain."

"That sounds like something I'd dream of as a small child. It sounds beautiful."

He took a sip of his wine without taking his eyes off her. She looked down at her feet, which hung off the foot of the bed.

"Do you really think it would ruin it if I saw it unfinished?"

"Yes"

"Why?"

Instead of replying, he took another swig of his wine.

"Do you have nothing to say?" she asked, and he turned to exit the room. "Feyd, wait," she said. "I'm sorry."

He halted where he stood.

"I don't know what I said that was wrong. I'm sorry – please stay." And then: "We don't need to talk." She said this as he turned toward her and slipped the strap of her nightgown over her shoulder, and then she remembered how things had gone the last time she tried to seduce him and quickly put it back up. "Everything I do seems to be wrong." She muttered. "It's embarrassing. What I'd do for a scrap of kindness."

His eyes looked almost soft at that.

"I've had too much to drink. I'll sleep it off – goodnight." And she waved him away with her hands.

"You weren't asleep when I came in."

"I was."

"You weren't."

He walked toward her. "I can help you sleep."

"Okay," she said, not knowing what he meant.

"Lie back."

"Okay"

He pushed her nightgown up over her knees.

"Here," she said. "I can take it off."

"Lie back."

"Okay" She felt his hands on her inner thighs, and she felt both aroused and uncomfortable. She propped herself up on her elbows to look at him. The look in his eyes took her breath away. "What are you? Oh – " she breathed as she felt his hand between her legs, gently rubbing her flesh in circles.

"What do you know of sex?" he asked, as he watched her.

"What do you mean?"

"Were you not touching yourself when I walked in?"

She covered her face with her hands.

"What do you think of? When you touch yourself?"

"I don't," she said before deciding to be honest. "That was the first time." She grimaced and turned her head. She couldn't look at him.

"What were you thinking about?"

"I don't want to say."

"No?"

"It's not flattering."

His hands stilled as he peered at her.

"Will you really make me say?"

He said nothing.

"I was thinking…" she knew she couldn't mention Vesryn, "about the nature of it all. Why do you want to know what I think?"

"You know nothing of pleasure."

"Teach me," she said. "I'll do my best to please you."

He shook his head. "Lie back."

She did.

And then she felt his lips on her inner thigh. She squirmed at the surprise of it, but he held her in place. She had to look away. He was too close to her – too close to a part of her she hadn't even looked at in a mirror. And then she felt his breath against her, and she shuddered. She glanced back down at him as he opened his mouth to show her his tongue. And then she felt his mouth on her innermost flesh, and she let out a gasp.

"Lie back," he rasped again, and she did. "What did you think of? When you touched yourself?"

"I – oh Gods" she groaned as she felt him slip a finger inside of her. "I thought of – being taken."

"By who?"

"You," she admitted, and he rewarded her with a swirl of his tongue. "Oh my – I thought – what are you doing?"

"Tell me what you thought of."

"I – I told you – I thought of you. I tried to think of – of something else – but I kept seeing you. I saw – "

"Tell me."

"You. Taking me – against the wall – "

"Like this?" he asked and slipped two fingers inside her.

She cried out.

"Close your eyes."

She did. And there they were in the tub. She stepped backward as her advanced, just like last time. Only this time, he didn't mean to kill her. She felt the wall of the basin against her back as he cornered her.

No. That wasn't quite evocative enough –

They were in the arena. She stumbled out into the light, feeling the white hot sand scalding her toes. She looked down, and this time she was naked. This time, her hands were shackled in front of her, and a guard dragged her to a black marble slab at the center of the pit, hooking her wrists to a pole at the end of it so that she was bent over the stone, which felt cool against her flesh.

She watched the scene play out from a birdseye view:

Feyd-Rautha walked toward her, his black robes fluttering as he crossed the ring. She tried to move, but her arms were held tight. He attached a metal cuff to each ankle, and she cried out as he tightened the chains, dragging her feet through the sand as he spread her thighs. The crowd thundered as lightning flashed above them.

Then he stepped between her legs, unlacing his breeches, spitting into his palm and wetting himself, and then he entered her in one swift movement – and suddenly, all of the tension within her seemed to snap. A tide rushed through her, accelerating, pushing her higher and higher until she was afraid she might fall – she knew she would fall – oh the pressure would crush her – and then it collapsed over her like a roaring wave and she shuddered and twitched as Feyd wrung as much pleasure out of her body as he could.

Her eyes opened and her hands flew to his head, trying to push him off of her – it was too much – but he held her in place. She convulsed, surrendering to the current as it took her this way and that, trembling and jerking as he coaxed her over a second, steeper cliff.

When she came back to herself, she noticed her cheeks were damp. She brought a hand to her face, touching the wetness – that was all it took it seemed – for she let out a sob bringing her knees to her chest.

She wanted him to reach for her, to kiss her tenderly (for now it was tenderness she craved) and to take her in his arms, but of course he didn't – of course he wouldn't – would just sit there looking at her.

"GET OUT," she roared, and he rose to his feet, turning on his heel – obediently walking from the room.

She brought her hands to her mouth, watching the door close behind him.

The Voice had worked.