Redana blinks. The words shoot through her like darts through mist, embedding themselves in glass shards. She stares at Dolce. Then she laughs.

It is not the laugh of someone who is stable, of sound mind, and sober. It is not the laugh that one particularly might wish to hear from a captain, unless they have already evacuated every non-essential crew member as they order the throttle to be locked into full acceleration and the beak of the Eater of Worlds yawns wide to accept their vessel.

“Once upon a time,” she says, booping Dolce on his adorable nose, “there was a [i]whipping-girl.[/i] Her job was to take every single punishment that her mistress deserved. And then, one day, the princess— her mistress— her— she ran away from home and left the whipping-girl behind.”

Redana rakes her hand through her hair, and looks at Dolce with wild bacchanal eyes. Her voice remains perfectly ship-shape, each word precise and trotting into place like an obedient sheep.

“[i]Designations,[/i]” she sneers. “If I leave my Bella to [i]starve[/i] on some broken [i]husk[/i] of a Hermetic [i]toy factory,[/i] then I would deserve the torments of the [i]Kindly Ones![/i]”

Dionysus does not so much as flinch. Mynx mouths “what the fuck.” For a moment, the only sound is the throb of blood in the ears. There is no sound of the snapping of claws. There is no scrape of chitin. Burning eyes do not appear in the yawning mouth of the door.

They only sometimes come when called.

They’re very busy, you see.

But there’s this game, Dolce. You wouldn’t have played it, but you can’t be among rogues and scoundrels without hearing hopefully-exaggerated stories.

You lay out daggers on a table. Each player takes turns plunging them against their own breast. Play continues clockwise around the table until you find the one that doesn’t agreeably fold back into itself.

Redana needs to [i]stop talking[/i].