Her hands rise to her head, slowly; weighted down by the dead hands of the body. She presses her fingertips to the bristling edge of her scalp.

Madness, this is madness. God's victory and death does not love her; no one loves Harrowhark Nonagesimus, although the anchorites of Drearburh love the Reverend Daughter. She's going mad.

"Lan Wangji," she gulps. "She is here."