“Claire!”
“You’re sick,” she said. “You’ve been sick a long time. You need help. You—you don’t get to order her, or Hannah, or me, anymore. This is Ellen’s place. You can’t chase her from it. If you try, I’ll stop you.”
Corbin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Matt,” she said. “Watch him. We have work to do.”
She left them, and walked to the stage, where Ellen stood in a ring of light. She took her hand, and the light healed, and the whirlpool turned.
The crowd prayed.
Corbin fell, and watched his daughters lead them.
*
—And as fast as the world skewed, it settled back. Tara sped through the goddess’s net. Those were her feet walking the moon road. She found firm footing on—what was this? More than reality. Surreality. The world above.
Whatever it was, she could walk it.
And because it was everywhere, each step brought her anywhere she wished to go—anywhere the moon answered to Seril’s name.
Wait. So I’ve been walking inside you—and you’re under attack in Alt Coulumb—so if you die there, then I— I don’t know what happens in that case. You’re me at the moment, and I’m you, so maybe you die also. Or you’re stuck out here in god-space. Craftswomen ask too many questions about the unknowable.
It’s not unknowable. Just unknown.
There came a timeless silence.
Where do I get off, Tara asked.
Wherever I want, she answered herself.
Alt Coulumb?
Coming up. But are you sure there’s nothing you’d like me to fix, long as you’re here? A little guilt to absolve? Anger or self-hatred to rub away?
She felt revulsion at herself for even considering, but she heard laughter, too, high and clear.
I was just fooling. But I’m here if you need me.
I know.
Tara turned to leave the moon road, but hesitated, one foot hovering over eternity.
Yes?
Now that you mention it, this suit needs some work.
68
Little was left of Daphne Mains.
The machine built inside her defended itself. Wheels and wards, enchantments and escarpments and demonic intelligences spun against the Blacksuits who swept through the sky, and against one of them in specific, the claw-fingered angel who tore Daphne and was torn in turn. The machine needed more power, more speed, and it burned through Daphne’s shells, recruiting shards of her annexed soul for the war effort. Dreams, nightmares, fantasies, mirror-memories, all melted for the sake of speed.
Observer-Daphne, at the bottom of her mind’s well, felt parts of her she had not known survived grind in the machine.
She thought slowly.
Slower.
Drained of color, judgment, time.
Many hands speared Blacksuits in midair. Hurt them. Trapped them. Flayed the goddess from them. One Suit dove for Madeline Ramp instead of Daphne; Ramp raised a hand. The Suit bounced off an invisible wall.
Thoughts reached Daphne under deep water’s weight, when they reached her at all. The machine moved fast, though. She caught the winged cop around the throat. The cop tore free, bleeding. She caught her again, one arm, then the next. Daphne grew two more claws, and her fingers sharpened to diamond points, to pierce.
Time went strange.
A voice spoke, over and beside the din.
“Apologies to the court for my tardiness.”
Daphne, inside herself, recognized that voice. Tara.
“Ms. Abernathy,” the Judge said, “you’re late.”
“I was delayed.” She stood outside the circle, on empty air. “I am sorry.”
She wore a suit of nacreous gray, as if pearls had been spun to wool and woven. Moonlight caught in her hair and on the curve of her cheek. She held a briefcase.
“Sorry,” the Judge said, “doesn’t cover it, Ms. Abernathy. Ms. Ramp and Ms. Mains at least comport themselves within the standards of the court—but these creatures entering themselves as representatives, Wakefield sniping from the sidelines, local authorities trying to arrest Craftswomen in my own circle—I won’t let you derail these proceedings further.”
“That’s fine, Your Honor,” Tara said. “I don’t mean to derail these proceedings at all.”
*
Tara looked at Daphne. It was hard to do that without letting the tears come. She could see what had happened to her now the wards were engaged, the enchantments woken, the demons risen from their slumber. Metal glinted through gaps in Daphne’s skin, and glyphwork Tara could barely comprehend. The parts of Daphne their old teacher hollowed out were filled with weapons and golemetric clockwork. The demons that wore Daphne’s face, many-armed, sharp-toothed, and glyph-inscribed, held two of Tara’s friends by the throat.
“Sorry, Daffy,” she said, and opened her briefcase.
“Ms. Abernathy, you are seconds from being held in contempt.”
“I’ll use those seconds wisely, Your Honor. Seril stands in Her own defense. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a case in such an advanced stage of debate. I am here only to submit relevant documents to the Court of Craft.”