#gisela

They come to rest in a cupboard away from the main avenues of the palace. Cedarwood shelves are piled with linen, clean and cool like the banished winter. Gisela tears strips from a curtain and wraps her arm, cinching the knots with her teeth. Mottled patches of red soak through.

"Your wound has reopened."

Gisela leans back against the wall, eyes closed. "Listen, the kids have to get home. Even if something keeps me here."

The nineclaw watches patiently with bright lamp eyes.

"I messed up. A long time ago," Gisela says. "I don't think I can do it again."

The children remain asleep, peaceful, dreaming. Valuable lessons were learned in the past. They are nourished and unharmed (but for one pinprick, and this never felt) because the rules indicate that this is correct. Easier for all concerned not to have involved them in the first place, but there was no real hope of Gisela choosing to return of her own accord. Otherwise everything might have been resolved years ago.

Perhaps this way is better. Vortigern adjusts the drape of a tablecloth and sets down a tray of cakes. Long absence, after all, merely fortifies the sweet wine of reunion.

The creature sweeps in, feinting a cut while pitching something toward Gisela from its other hand. It looks like a thin, silver string, but it flies straight and fast. She slices out and feels a sudden weight dragging her guard down.

"It's a chain," she says. The passage is narrow, and the ambush has collapsed into a cramped single-file scuffle. The nineclaw is at her back, steadying her.

"Hold tight."

She's ready when the jolt comes. The creature's comrades seize it by the waist and pull together.

"Nine," Gisela says as the chain snaps taut.

"I'm ready."

"On three, push!"