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"The teeth." Elzhbeta's gaze didn't waver. "Each one a small store of a witch's living essence. Set into a working that has been growing in the chapel basement for two winters."

"What working."

Elzhbeta smiled. "A harbour."

Idonea didn't understand, so she waited.

"Somewhere," Elzhbeta said, "another witch has been preparing a door. I don't know who. I don't know where. Vinea has not told me — he is careful with his tools, and he has more than one. But a door is only half a working. A door opens onto somewhere. A daemon who crosses must have a place to land in this world, or he will come apart in the crossing. The mortal plane does not tolerate the shape of him for long. He needs an anchor. A body. A harbour."

The words landed slowly.

"You," Idonea said. "You are the harbour."

"Yes."

"He will wear you."

"He will be me. We will be one thing. The witch the Order broke at fourteen will be the witch who unmakes the Order at fifty. That is the bargain I have made, and I have kept my half of it, and the working in the basement is nearly complete." Her eyes glittered. "Three teeth set. One socket waiting."

"For me."

"For you. The fourth. The Riven who came to this village with her mother's signature still on her skin. I didn't know who you were when you arrived, Idonea. I knew only that Vinea was interested. He has been very interested in you. More than he has been in me, lately. I have been wondering why."

A flicker, then, behind the composure. The first crack Idonea had seen in her.

"He has not told me everything."

"No."

"He has told you?"

"No. But I have begun to suspect that he has more than one witch on this errand, and that I am not the one he loves best."

Idonea's grip on her dagger tightened. There would, possibly, not be a later in which to think about it — but there might.

“The Magistrate found me starving,” Elzhbeta said. "He thought he was saving a witch. He has never known what he saved."

"He doesn't know about the teeth."

"He does not. Nor about Vinea. Nor about the door beneath the chapel. He sleeps beside me each night and he does not know I have a working. That is the gift of his particular kindness. It does not look for what does not want to be looked at."

A pause. Elzhbeta took a single step forward. Idonea didn't retreat, she didn't yet know how to.

"I have been doing this work for years, Idonea. I have built a working that no one in any generation since has had the patience to build. But now I have the teeth, placed perfectly, set into a door that has been waiting for its last."

"And then?"

"And then it opens."

Idonea's breath caught. "You can't —"

"I can. I have." A flicker of contempt. "Killing them was easy, Idonea." Elzhbeta's voice didn't waver. "Three for the door. The fourth is yours."

"Why—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed. "Why are you telling me this?"

Elzhbeta tilted her head, and the terrible smile that curved her lips was gentle. "Because I want one person to know. Before." She paused, and pride, or grief, flickered through her eyes. "It seems unfair, after so much work, to die without somebody having seen it."

Idonea's blood turned to ice in her veins. "You're going to die?"