wynn

"Supplies are scarce," The dealer says. "Very scarce. £2000 per dose. Don't try to negotiate. There are plenty of rich kids looking to impress mummy and daddy."

You don’t need to check your wallet, there’s no way you’d be able to shell out £500 on stimulants, let alone £2000. You’re barely managing to scrape by as it is, especially since you took on Robin’s debt.

Between waiting at the Cafe, working on Alex’s farm, and volunteering as an initiate at the Temple, you’re surprised you even have the time to study. But that’s why you need stimulants, to give you the edge you could’ve had if you weren’t forced to work so hard.

You swallow and shake your head, walking away from the dealer without another word. Tears prick at your eyes as your stomach churns, terrified that you might start crying before you can reach the bathrooms.

You don’t have rich parents to impress, but you still want to win. The 2000 pound reward was enough to catch your attention when River was describing the competition, despite maths being your worst subject. God knows you need the money.

The £4000 allowance doled out by the Temple each month is the only thing keeping you from having to sell yourself on the streets. Though the idea of fast cash is appealing, you don’t want to do it. There was a reason you were working yourself into an early grave even though you’ve been told an ‘easier’ way existed. It’s dangerous work, and even if you got over that part, it terrifies you to think of what Whitney would do if she found out.

Sure, she called you ‘slut’ more than she called you by your own name. But you were hers. She made that much abundantly clear, not only to you but to anyone who dared touch you in front of her.

You freeze when Whitney flashes into your mind. You didn’t know much about her, not really. But from what you’ve gathered, there’s no way she could help you out financially, or want to help you for that matter. Despite the tears in your eyes, the corners of your lips flicker up into a half-smile. You didn’t need Whitney’s money, you would never ask that of her. But you did need her help.

It doesn’t take long to find her, it’s an hour before class starts and she, for once, is early. Standing inside the school gate, near the entrance, smoking with her friends. You walk to her, shoes silent on the freshly fallen snow.

When you get to her, you reach out and grab onto her sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.

“W-Whitney…”

Whitney looks down at you, her face unchanging as she blows smoke into yours. “The fuck do you want, slut?”

You try your best not to cough, but the smoke does nothing to help your stinging eyes. They fill up even more, making the world blurry with tears. You look down, but don’t drop your grip on her sleeve.

“Oi,” She barks at her posse. “Fuck off.”

“Hey-“ One of her goons starts to protest.

“Did I fucking stutter?” Whitney flicks her cigarette butt at the lean boy before taking a mock step forward, the threat of a punch looming. The boy flinches away. “No? Right, now get the fuck out’ve here.”

They scatter fast after that, leaving just the two of you behind.

“Hey, up here.” Whitney takes your chin between her forefinger and thumb, forcing you to look at her. “Did someone fuck with my property again?”

Your status at school is no secret- it’s probably one of the reasons Whitney noticed you in the first place. She hadn’t been the only one to bully you, though at least she hadn’t beaten you up like some of the other students had.

But since Whitney claimed you as hers, only a few people have tried to rough you up like the way they used to. And those who tried, well… They wouldn’t even look in your direction now.

“No,” You say quietly, letting your head lean against her middle for a second. You feel how her chest moves with an intake of breath.

“Someone fucking with you?”

“No,” You haven’t asked for her help before, she’d given it without you needing to ask when you’d gotten beaten up after school, and on Halloween when that man tried to grope you. “Maybe… yeah, I think so.”

“Thinking too hard, huh? It’s not good for sluts like you. Too pretty for that, lemme do the thinking. What’s going on?”

“I… I tried to uh…” You trail off, suddenly embarrassed to admit that you’ve been taking stimulants. “Buy stimulants... and I… I don’t know…”

“Gabe selling them again?” You give her a confused look. “Skinny fucker, short too.” You nod.

“He um… Keeps raising the prices. I can’t… I can’t afford them. I don’t know if it’s just for me but… I can’t...”

“Figured you’d get your big bad girlfriend to shake ‘em down, yeah?” She teases, her voice uncannily soft as she cups your cheek. “Fuck, you’re adorable. Fucking nerd. Yeah, I know that guy. How much is he charging?”

“Two thousand pounds.”

“Fuck that.” She laughs, tugging you close. “You’re not paying a thing to that fuck, got it?”

“Whitney I need-”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll get your pills, smarty. Relax.”

It’s your turn to exhale, your shoulders dropping at her command. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me on your knees, slut.” Whitney smirks. “But I’ll take a kiss, for now.”

Grabbing you by the waist, she leans down. Connecting your lips in a passionate kiss, her tongue exploring the inside of your mouth as her hands explore your body. When she pulls away, you’re gasping, and painfully turned on.

“Now run off, I’ve got shit to do.”

♡ In truth, Peruere’s motivations were different. Shortly after her ordination, Crucabena disappeared under mysterious circumstances and her authority was passed on to Arlecchino. Immediately afterwards, she began to reform the Church and the House of the Hearth. She challenged the Church’s falsehoods, eliminated the other corrupt priests, and preached a more compassionate form of worship.

♡ Despite her efforts, however, scars run deep within the city. The children weren’t the only ones harmed by Crucabena; her influence spanned the entire Court of Fontaine, from religious schools to devout families. In the latter’s case, it can be difficult for Arlecchino to reach out to individuals and correct their beliefs. But some have taken to her like a moth to flame, actively seeking out her enlightenment. One such moth is you.

☾⋆｡ ๋

“Excuse me, Father!”

The Church is silent in the wake of mass. Footsteps and voices echo as believers depart to go on with their daily lives. The children are walking through the exit connected to the House of the Hearth, their solemn demeanors giving way to laughter. Only two people remain.

As always, you linger behind Arlecchino, head bowed.

“Ah, ______.” She turns around to face you. “Is something the matter?”

You look the same—shy expression, modest clothing, rosary in hand.

In a quiet voice, you tell her, “I am in need of your guidance. Yesterday, I…can we discuss this in your office? I’ll try to keep it short this time.”

“Ah, of course. Follow me.”

By now, it has become routine for you to approach Arlecchino after weekly mass. She leads you down a hallway and into her private office, her confident gait juxtaposed by your meek footsteps. A few words are whispered to a passing nun—orders to prepare your favorite tea and desserts.

In the meantime, she takes a seat on the sofa and gives you a polite smile.

“Go on. You have my undivided attention.”

☾⋆｡ ๋

♡ If Arlecchino’s trauma led to her disillusionment with the Church, then yours brought you “closer” to God. Technically, there is nothing wrong with your devotion—you pray daily, treat people with compassion, and derive a sense of solace from your religion. The harm lies in your blind faith, your total dependence on Arlecchino’s guidance.

♡ While you’ve accepted Arlecchino’s stance on religion, you still abide by Crucabena’s doctrine when it comes to your own religious life. You abstain from all vices. You repent for actions which barely count as sins. You are in a constant state of shame, guilt, paranoia, confusion. She can only imagine just how traumatic your meetings with Crucabena were.

♡ Still, you make for enjoyable company. It is common for Arlecchino to see you in the House of the Hearth bearing gifts for the children—and she can tell the difference between performances and your genuine acts of charity. When you aren’t confiding in her, you inquire about her hobbies, her favorite things, her life before priesthood. There is something so pitiful, so precious about your trust in her.

♡ Which is why Arlecchino is quick to notice a shift in your attitude. It begins with you sitting in the middle pews during mass, rather than your usual spot in the front row. During communion, you avoid eye contact and accept the wafer from her with trembling hands. There is a decrease in your private meetings. Fortunately, there is no need for her to investigate; rather, you provide the answer on a silver platter.

♡ Confessions are a wellspring of valuable information. Be it a direct admission or small details, such encounters have aided Arlecchino in punishing those who commit evil under the guise of virtue. Neither is it difficult for her to deduce one’s identity through their voice and mannerisms. So when she recognizes you beyond the screen, she wonders why you opted for the confessional rather than your usual face-to-face confessions with her.

☾⋆｡ ๋

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. My last confession was one week ago.”

That is the first thing you tell her. From the center compartment, Arlecchino can imagine you doing the sign of the cross. The ritualistic gesture lends a short-lived grace to your movements, your hands honed by years of practice.

A pause. “Pardon my insolence but I must know: I am not speaking to Father Arlecchino, am I?”

Oh?

“You are not,” is her swift response, spoken in an altered voice. “And why do you ask? Does your confession concern the head priest?”

What secrets could you possibly be hiding from her?

She hears a hitched breath. “No! I just don’t want her to know. So please, what I’m about to tell you…don’t breathe a word of it to anyone else.”

“But of course. And what do you have to confess, my child?”

There is the sound of beads clicking together—your rosary, an old violet-and-black set designed by Crucabena. Arlecchino owned an identical one up until her death.

“These past years,” you whisper, “I have been consumed with carnal desires.”

She sits up straighter. “Desires?”

“It’s complicated,” you mutter. “There’s this person I’ve known for years, and I’ve always looked up to them as a fellow believer. Yet over time, I’ve been plagued with…impure thoughts of them. They captivate me. Their attention brings me joy and anxiety in equal parts. They haunt my thoughts in debauched fantasies. Yet we aren’t even married, much less lovers.”

Who are they?

A spider has taken up residence in a corner of the ceiling. It sits in the center of a silvery web, waiting for its prey.

She clears her throat. “And what is the matter with that? It is true that many view lust as a sin. But carnal desires are natural and not evil as to warrant eternal damnation.”

Silence. Most likely, you are mulling over what she just said; discernment isn’t your strong suit.

It’s just like you to fret over an ordinary crush. But who is this person that ensnared your heart? Do they know you as well as her?

Arlecchino continues speaking. “Moreover, no human is immune to temptation. From what you told me, it is clear that you have made active efforts to suppress your lust. So is it not possible for you to resist this so-called temptation, if not distance yourself from the object of your desire?”

“But how can I resist temptation when its very source lies in the Church?!”

Even Arlecchino is caught off-guard by your outburst. It is followed by your horrified gasp.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Your next words are spoken in an even softer voice. “It’s Father Arlecchino. She is the one I desire.”

A fly buzzes through the latticed screen of the confessional. It briefly hovers around Arlecchino before she swats it away.

“Ah, now I understand.”

“She hasn’t done anything to me!” you add quickly. “I swear, it’s purely one-sided. And that is what distresses me most of all. She is a woman of God, dedicated to the salvation of His flock, yet here I am making a mockery of her righteousness.”

“And what do you see in her?”

“Where do I even begin? She’s kind. I know there are people who speak ill of her, claiming she preaches falsehoods, but I’ve witnessed her compassion with my own eyes. The orphans love her. The Church is warmer, more welcoming under her authority. And…”

The fly has taken a liking to the spiderweb. Spying its prospective prey, the spider begins its crawl towards the edge of the web.

You take a deep breath. “She knows of my religious struggles yet has never given me reason to fear her judgment. She is the one who helped me discern my vocation. She is the one who put a stop to my self-flagellation, even though that penance was assigned by Mother Crucabena. She is the one who has reassured me, time and time again, that I am worthy of God’s love. She…”

That is when you burst into tears.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the confessional are your choked sobs and rosary beads. Arlecchino herself remains silent but her thoughts are just as discordant.

Her gaze drifts to her necklace. It is a far cry from Crucabena’s rosary, a long chain from which hangs a silver cross adorned with ornate engravings and crimson jewels. When she presses down on a specific jewel, the pendant separates to reveal a hidden blade.

How long has it been since she struck Crucabena with that false symbol?

“I’ve tried so hard to be good,” you continue between sobs. “All my life, I’ve done my best to resist temptation and abide by the Church’s teachings. So why…? What I feel for Father Arlecchino—it’s disgusting, it’s not normal, it cannot be called love. But I…”

Your voice trails off. In her mind’s eye, Arlecchino sees you kneeling with your head bowed and your rosary looped around your clasped hands. If only she could wipe your tears.

“And I am truly sorry for all my sins,” you sniffle. “Now please, Father, what is my penance? If you tell me to distance myself from Father Arlecchino, then I will do so at once. If anything, I think she’d prefer it; I’ve wasted enough of her time.”

“Hush, my child,” she says sharply. Then, in a gentler tone, she adds, “Give me time to think.”

The fly is caught in the spider’s web. From her seat, Arlecchino watches as the spider bites down on the struggling insect and wraps it in silk, sealing its unfortunate fate.

Well, this was an unexpected answer, but not an unfortunate one.

In truth, she cares little about her vow of chastity. It is but a minor offense compared to those of her fellow priests. As for your attraction towards her, it doesn’t bother her at all. Her own sentiments require further reflection but for now…

“Why not put your desires to the test?”

There is the sound of beads hitting the floor. “Excuse me?”

In a calm voice, she explains, “There is nothing inherently sinful about falling in love with a priest. Rather, the fault should lie in the priest who cannot commit to their vow of chastity. But that, too, can be put into question—after all, nowhere in the religious texts is it explicitly stated that God demanded celibacy from His shepherds. It is for this reason that other denominations allow their priests to marry and procreate.”

“I see,” you mutter. “Though I doubt our Church would permit that anytime soon.”

“Who knows? As for the matter of your penance…like you said, it is impossible to escape the object of your desire. So why don’t you continue your usual interactions with Father Arlecchino? It will enable you to discern whether what you feel for her is truly lust or love. And should you ever confess your feelings to her, she will be the one to instruct you on what to do.”

“Is that all? Surely, there must be another—”

She cuts you off. “That is the only way. It is my belief that you need only desire something with sufficient intensity and God will answer. Or are you doubting my words as a priest?”

Your fearful “no!” puts an end to your confession. Thus, you recite your prayers and leave the confessional. After a while, Arlecchino makes a stealthy exit.

Just as she expected, you are still praying inside the Church. With your dried tears and tightly clasped hands, you make a perfect image of repentance.

Shaking her head, she walks down the hallway and into her office.

The tea table is empty. That will change tomorrow; she already has the perfect choice of desserts in mind. Cakes, tarts, macarons, all of your favorite treats.

The next day, an invitation is delivered to your doorstep. The envelope bears the official seal of the Church of Fontaine.

☾⋆｡ ๋

♡ Since then, Arlecchino has treated you differently. In the past, her religious counsel took the form of reassurances, open-ended questions, and reminders that only you can discern your own fate. But now she finds herself giving you more specific lessons and instructions. She invites you to more tea parties and private events in the House of the Hearth. 

♡ She is also more…physical these days. During mass, she puts the communion wafer in your mouth, a gloved thumb brushing against your lip. On your walks to her office, she places her hand on your back, forcing you to match her pace. At one point, she even pulls you aside and tells you to disrobe so she can see if you are wearing your scapular properly. There is a moment of silence when your scars are exposed, followed by the warm sensation of her fingertips tracing your skin.

♡ However, it doesn’t take long for another issue to arise. One mass, Arlecchino notices that a certain individual has moved to the front pews to sit next to you. This continues for weeks, with him speaking to you before and after the service. You’re clearly uncomfortable around him, and it reaches the point that you mention it to Arlecchino during a tea party.

♡ Quietly, you explain that you are being harassed by one of your coworkers. For weeks, he has been bothering you at work, walking you home from mass, showing no signs of accepting your blatant rejections. Even worse, no one is taking your distress seriously due to his popularity within the Court of Fontaine. Normally, Arlecchino would be quick to eliminate him but she decides on another solution which would kill two birds with one stone.

♡ Her suggestion is that you stay in the Church for a few weeks. It is a convenient arrangement on both sides—the children are already familiar with you; the House of the Hearth has no shortage of rooms; and in the worst-case scenario, it can serve as a trial period for nunhood. In the past, Arlecchino did deem your personality fitting for a life of religious service, though you disagreed on the basis that you weren’t “worthy” of such an important role.

♡ It doesn’t take long for you to adjust. The House of the Hearth is quiet, secure, shielded from outside disturbances. The children are friendly to you, and they all agree that you’d fare well as their caretaker. Best of all, Arlecchino has more excuses to spend time with you—barbeque parties, walks along the sea, meetings with the other priests and nuns, nightly conversations in your room. It feels like home.

♡ One day, you are fitted into a nun’s habit. It looks perfect on you, with a few embellishments to suit your style preferences. Arlecchino personally helps you into the outfit, fixing the buttons and smoothing out imaginary creases. The final piece is a cross necklace identical to her own; she casually reveals the hidden blade and claims it is a self-defense mechanism. When you cast your gaze upon your shared reflection in the mirror, a flustered smile adorns your face.

♡ Still, you are undecided on your “true” vocation. Eventually, you decide to return to your job and think it over. Arlecchino personally escorts you to your house and insists that you keep your cross necklace, if only to replace your “missing” rosary. Once the front door is shut, she casts a harsh glare upon the figure across the street. Later, her children are assigned to keep watch over you and your stalker.

♡ For the next few days, all is well. Your daily life resumes. Arlecchino keeps a close eye on you through her children’s reports and her own inspections. After mass, the two of you enjoy another tea party, and you make no mention of your stalker. When the news reaches the city of an upcoming celestial phenomenon, you eagerly accept Arlecchino’s invitation for a viewing party.

♡ The crimson moon rises, bathing the world in a blood-red glow. While the children gaze at the moon, Arlecchino waits for you in front of the orphanage. Strange, punctuality is one of your virtues yet you’re late. Just as she is about to leave for your house, Freminet frantically approaches her and leads her to the Church.

♡ Red. It’s all over you, and not from the moonlight. The first thing Arlecchino sees is you curled up on the floor in a state of shock. In the heart of the Church lies a familiar figure—your stalker, writhing on the floor as blood pools from his chest. Lynette stands over him, ensuring that he won’t escape, while Lyney tries and fails to console you.

♡ All three of her children are wearing their crosses. Yours is on the floor, its blade exposed and tainted with blood. Lyney is the one who explains the situation to Arlecchino: They heard a commotion in the Church and by the time they arrived, you had driven your cross into your stalker’s heart. He had attacked you and paid the price.

♡ Calmly, Arlecchino tells Freminet to bring you to the orphanage. Once you are gone, she walks up to your stalker and stomps on his head, piercing his skull with her stiletto. Lyney and Lynette are told to dispose of the body, clean up the church, then return to the party. The crimson moon serves as a silent witness all throughout.

☾⋆｡ ๋

“Father, your face…”

As soon as he sees her, Freminet leaves your room and closes the door behind him.

“Freminet.” Arlecchino wipes the blood off her cheek. “That sinner has been dealt with. You may return to the party.”

“Oh? Okay.” He nods, casting a worried look at your door. As he walks down the hallway, one of his hands comes up to touch his cross pendant.

With that, Arlecchino enters your room.

Even in your change of clothes, your visage is painted crimson by the moonlight. Your body is slumped against the bed, knees on the floor. No sounds leave your lips save for short breaths. Tiny crescents mar your arms—a coping mechanism or an attempt at penance?

Wordlessly, she sits next to you and pats your head with a gloved hand.

“Father.” You are the one to break the silence. “What just…”

“That man is dead.” She says it plainly, her tone void of judgment. “He won’t be able to torment you any longer.”

You immediately look up, eyes glossy. “Are you sure?! Did I…?”

In the blood-red moonlight, your anguish is clear as day. Your hands tremble, nails digging into the mattress, before clasping together in a graceless effort to steel yourself. But the familiar gesture does little to calm you, all prayers futile in the wake of your sin.

“This is it. I’m really going to burn in Hell,” you sob. “I didn’t mean to—what should I do, Father?”

This time, Arlecchino spares no warmth in consoling you. She adjusts your body so that your head rests on her lap, letting your tears drip onto her cassock. Her hand remains on the back of your head, stroking your hair.

“There is no need to fret,” she says gently. “Before the moon sets, the Church will be purged of that man’s filth and it will be as though he never appeared tonight.”

You shake your head. “Even then, you…God knows what I have done.”

“Listen to me.” She tilts your face upwards, her expression firm. “All you did was use your cross necklace for its intended purpose—to save yourself from harm. And yet even in the face of evil, you claim to be the one who sinned. None of this is your fault, ______.”

Her other hand caresses your cheek, wiping away your tears.

“Perhaps it is all part of God’s plan,” she muses. As she speaks, she kneels to your level and holds your hands, intertwining your fingers. “We live in a cruel world and it is only in places such as my Church that safety can be promised. Should you take the veil, no other sinners would dare to violate your virtue.”

Your next words are soft, hesitant, filled with disbelief. “Are you saying that I can still become a nun?! That you…you don’t mind keeping me around?”

“And for what reason would I deny you sanctuary?” she asks, her expression shifting to a frown. “As a priest, it is my duty to shepherd God’s flock. And as a person, it is my desire to protect those I cherish. Everything I do is for your own good.”

For once, you are rendered speechless. All you can do is stare at your lap, at your hands clasped together.

When Arlecchino leans towards you, her grip prevents you from drawing back.

“All you must do is listen to me,” she whispers. “Until our mortal deaths, I will be the one to lead you away from true temptation and deliver you from evil. Does it seem agreeable to you?”

“I…I guess so,” you whimper. Nervously, you meet her gaze, your eyes alight with a glimmer of hope. “If it’s you, I can believe it.”

“Good. And remember this always, ______.”

The crimson moon shines brightly, casting a blood-red halo around your savior. And as Arlecchino pulls you closer, your lips a breath away from a kiss, a secret is divulged with the fervence of a sacred prayer.

“God still loves you. As do I.”

♡

More Church AU here!! Dottore ๑ Capitano ๑ Pantalone ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.

…Don’t ask me how many times I broke down over Priest! Arlecchino. Just don’t. To all of the Arle simps out there, I hope I did your wife justice. And may you all suffer from brainrot bc I refuse to be the only one in pain (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

Lastly, lots of love to @diodellet for beta-reading this fic and my mutuals for indulging my brainrot. I hope this was worth the wait <3

“I see.” It took every ounce of her impressive self-restraint not to laugh aloud. “What a shame. Remind me exactly what it is we can’t do, love?”

“I can’t do this.” You gave a sweeping gesture, nearly violent enough to knock yourself off-balance. “It’s not you—I mean, it is you, with the kidnapping and imprisonment and all, but aside from that, I just—” A deep, shuddering breath, followed shortly by a pitchy, almost keening noise. “I’m just not ready to be a mother.”

This time, Arlecchino couldn’t stop herself – a single, breathy chuckle slipping past her lips. Your frowned deepened, and she did her best to sober quickly. “I’m sorry, I—” She steepled her fingers in front of her, leaning forward to rest her chin on the point of intersection. “I suppose I wasn’t aware you were going to be.”

If you heard, you clearly weren’t listening. Rather unceremoniously, the glass splintered; your thin veneer of composure falling away as the first tear broke free, shortly followed by a second, then a third. She lost count somewhere around the dozenth. “It’s not that I don’t love your children,” you started, your voice cracking as you struggled to wipe at your eyes between words. “I mean, I love them all in spite of them being yours, which is actually really impressive because I find you so unbearably off-putting to be around, but— I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this level of responsibility. There’s… how many? Fifty of them? Two hundred?”

“My love.” She pushed herself to her feet, dulling her voice into the softest, smoothest possible coo. “Isn’t it about time for you to retire for the night?”

“How could you possibly want to go to sleep at a time like this?” You were sobbing now, rather unabashedly. All attempts to maintain your dignity had been laid aside in favor of burying your face in your palms and hanging your head almost pitifully low. “I have five hundred kids to take care of!”

Whether you were too distracted to notice her arms wrapping around you or simply too panicked to care, it would’ve been impossible to say. You failed to protest as she pulled you against her chest, only sniffling miserably and burying your face in her coat. “You seem to have forgotten that ‘Father’ is only a title,” she murmured as gently as she could, letting her lips brush against the top of your head, then your tear-stained cheek. “Most of my children have already grown out of the need for a true mother and father, and I doubt those who haven’t view either of us in a very paternal light. Do you understand?”

There was a delay, but she felt you nod against her chest. Arlecchino could only sigh, already moving to exit her study. “Let’s get you to bed, dear.”

~

You were still unconscious by the time she rose the next morning, no doubt putting off the inevitable hangover. She left you where you lied and, after making sure a pitcher of water would be waiting for you when you woke up, went about her obligations.

It was only a few hours later that, during a conversation with Lyney, he seemed to pause, to glance to either side. Whatever he’d planned to say was quickly forgotten in favor of a new tangent. “I don’t think I’ve seen mom yet, today.”

At that, Arlecchino perked up. “Mom?”

He caught himself quickly, straightening. “Mother, I mean. (Y/n). My apologies, Lynette's disregard must be rubbing off on me.”

She took a moment to purse her lips, to do what she often did best and consider the information that’d been laid at her feet. “Lyney,” she said, eventually, when she’d made up her mind.