It was a penetrating hunger with no motivation or desire to eat, which left only a rolling and empty pain in the depth of her stomach. There was the very real pain of eating sparsely, neglecting her physical body as she retreated into herself; looking under the beds and in the closets of her mind for where the lost memories might hide. It was as if they were keys, knowing the look of them, the weight of them, where they ought to be, knowing they were there, but where? And there was also a great and painless void, a depression that filled her, that surrounded her, that held her in place, that made her unable and unwilling to move, to read, to write, to leave. For nearly two months she had remained silent, her last real words with another living thing not herself, had been with Glenn Burnie. The words he had were plain, and from him, ever so gentle and ever so sweet. Still, it completed the story of the time she had lost. He could have lied, but he hadn’t. How could she tell, she couldn’t. But she believed him, and for her, these were the facts. Genny had done to Gloria the very thing she had rejected, condemned and abhorred in Rhaena, she had violated privacy and trespassed into the seamstress’ mind. She might never know how, or recall, for herself, why, but it was simple and it was everything.
The realization of responsibility revealed several things, the first of which was that she possessed an immense power. The second, that she had no idea how to control it. Of course, there was guilt. She had so adamantly refused the notion, knowing in the pit of her that she simply could not have done to Gloria what the seamstress claimed. Not that her morals were infallible, though it was a difficult notion even for her to grasp, but rather, she knew without doubt she simply did not possess the raw power or reach to do what all facts said she must have done. Rhaena had never taught her this, Zilliah had never shown her, how then?
It was a question that had settled upon her much like the dust in this room. For long weeks the Inquisitory had been mostly empty, many of the staff had been long dead or disappeared, returned home to help with planting and healing the wounds left by a terrible summer or fighting to survive a hungry winter. There was nothing here but books and dust, and her, there was no need anymore, Glenn Burnie’s secrets were the least of worries. She’d slept here more than she hadn’t, clinging to the last few things in the world that made any sense; though a ghostly figure, with red hair might have been seen every now and again in the dark, pre-dawn hours, coming and going from the apartment above the bakery.
But for all Myrken knew, if any even cared, Genny had vanished. There were no missives or notes, no meetings or investigations, no visits to the Constabulary, as she had made customary. There was nothing for two solid months. And then, very suddenly, there was Daryl. A young, shaggy-haired Inquisitory Page who had often carried communications for Ms. Genny, now appeared at the Dagger, asking after one Miss Gloria Wynsee. This was either his first stop or there were a good, many missives as there were several folios yet tucked under his arm, sealed with wax still fresh.