Indirk stared at the moon. At the beginning of the world, some god had written these words upon it: “Grow wild, my garden. There is no god to tend you, nor to stop you. Be not contained.” The words were carved by some vast and beautiful hand into the surface of the moon, filling it from edge to edge, the script so ancient it had been forgotten. But it had been recorded by the ancient aquil, that it had been recorded by their ancient predecessors, that once in time immemorial even to them, the words had been thus understood.

“I hope you haven’t misjudged me,” said the Writhewife.

With a deep breath, Indirk collapsed to her knees, and then back onto her haunches on the stony pavement of this dead-end alley. Her adrenaline was draining away now, leaving her light-headed and tired. She let out a groan and brought her satchel into her lap, putting her hand inside to feel smooth fur. The creature wrapped itself around her hand. Indirk said, “Avie, avie, avie,” and couldn’t stop a quiet sob.

“Why are you crying?”

“I promised Avie I’d get her something special to eat and then I didn’t do it.”

The Writhewife knelt in front of Indirk. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

Indirk lifted her head. There were Writhewives all around her, at least seven of them, some leaning casually against the walls, a few watching Indirk, and three standing as guards at the mouth of the alley. They all wore those strange masks, though skulls of no beast. They’d told Indirk that the serpent wouldn’t try to fight them, that it was intelligent and knew well enough to fear for its life, and that they would kill it if they were given the chance.

Sighing, the Writhewife in front of Indirk leaned back and pulled her skull-mask off. The face beneath was familiar: that wide, dramatic brow, the prominent pout on lips that were big and dark on her ashy face, the hard jaw on a narrow neck. Surprised by the sight, Indirk swept a hand out to the Writhewife’s cloak, pushing it aside to note that beneath it, one of the woman’s sleeves hung empty where part of her arm had previously been torn away.

Indirk said, “You died.”

The Writhewife pushed Indirk’s hand away and pulled her cloak back into order. “The body perished, but you returned it. Anthrals aren’t so complicated. I repaired this one. I can repair almost anything.”

“Do you remember?” Indirk looked her hard in the face. “What was in those halls? The secret song?”

“I died. I did not see it. Did you reach it? Did you see it?”

Indirk found herself hesitating for some reason. No, she knew why: fear. She was afraid of all of this, all of them, of not understanding them. The Writhe was a monster, the great ancient enemy of her people. Not just one soldier, not just following orders, but a great elder beast that had with its own uncountable hands taken the lives of thousands upon thousands over centuries. Indirk shouldn’t be talking to it at all.

What Indirk said was, “Do you have a name?”

“I am the Writhe,” the Writhewife responded. Then, she paused, and looked to some of the others as though listening to them speak. In her pale, colorless eyes, a yellow candle seemed to shiver briefly, and then it went out. “We do have names for each other, but they do not serve the same purpose that your name does. I am the Writhe, as much as you are Gray Watch.”

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“But I’m not Gray Watch. I’m Indirk Correlon. You know that. You keep calling me that. I’m not even from…” Indirk started, but then stopped, thinking better of telling the Writhe any secrets.

The Writhewife said, “You’re not from Gray Watch, I know.”

“What?” At this, Indirk pulled away, feeling her fear surface again. She cringed at pain in her body, her many wounds making themselves known, another carnivate’s claw still embedded in her arm. But she ignored that. “You’re not supposed to know that.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” the Writhewife said. “I know you, Indirk Correlon. You are not from Gray Watch. You are from Pharaul. Your existence began in the Laines. You are a spy. I doesn’t matter to me.”

“The fuck it doesn’t!” Indirk managed to her feet, stepping further away. But there were more Writhewives behind her. She stood her ground and bared her teeth. “If you know that, then you know that I’m here to… If you love Gray Watch so much, then you can’t…” Indirk shook her head hard, still light-headed, still confused. “Correlon’s not even my real name. Why are you helping me?”

“Correlon is your real name,” the Writhewife chuckled, as though Indirk had said something silly. “It’s the name you’ve chosen. You’re different than the other spies you came with. You made a home in Gray Watch. You made friends in Gray Watch. You became part of Gray Watch. You adopted this place, and it’s adopted you. You’re a part of Gray Watch, and since I love Gray Watch, I love the version of you that is part of Gray Watch, just like I treasure these anthrals that are part of me. That’s Indirk Correlon. Who you are.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m not-“

“Don’t you want to be?” The Writhewife answered. “Don’t you choose to be of Gray Watch?”

Indirk stared at the familiar Writhewife, at the amused look on her face, and told her, “I don’t think I have that choice.”

“You've made it already.”

“I don’t have that choice!” Indirk snapped, feeling suddenly both mocked and surrounded. “This city is fucked, anyway. That snake that’s after me was down in that dungeon where you died because it works for that dancer woman or something, and she burns people with some brain-fucking magic, and that dungeon was full of burning people. She’s part of it. Gray Watch is torturing those people!”

The Writhewife stood, at last, and was not smiling any longer. She looked at Indirk with a flat, vaguely unsettled expression. “I see.”

“Why would I want to be part of something evil like that? It has to be stopped!”

“Thank you for telling me.” The Writhewife looked sideways at the others. “My Gray love is tormented, in its nightmares, in its waking. Sometimes it hurts itself. Sometimes it hurts me. Marriage is difficult, I’ve found. I wish it wouldn’t keep secrets from me. I wish it would trust me with…”

The Writhewife went quiet. The others stayed quiet. Indirk stared, waiting, as though she expected them to change their minds and turn on her. It could happen at any moment, once they decided that she wasn’t Indirk Correlon, that she was a spy and an enemy of their Gray love, but the Writhewives seemed to just get stuck. They were just still, just quiet, fitful yellow light in the eyes of the one in front of her. At length, Indirk said, “I want to go. I need to get somewhere safe. Not here.”

The Writhwife’s gaze lifted. “I will walk you home.”

“Not home,” Indirk shook her head. “I feel like that snake must know where I live. I need to go somewhere else.”

“Back to your spies?”

Indirk blinked and stared the Writhewife in the eyes, afraid that she was being tested. But the Writhewife stared so plainly, gaze seeming empty, like she wasn’t really paying attention. It gave Indirk time to think, to wonder, but her thoughts didn’t go anywhere. She tried to imagine going back to the fishmonger’s shack on the quay, to Amo and Nymir and Phaeduin and the others, and trying to tell them everything that had happened, everything she felt. But her feelings pulled her elsewhere.