Irina scowled. “It should not have been a factor, as you say. You could have been a naked dancer and you still would have been a victim, wronged by this . . . kazyoel.” She spat the final word in a way that needed no translation. “How do you say . . . ?”

“Asshole, Mom,” Rafe said from the doorway.

Mercy stiffened and reflexively tried to straighten her hair. “Rafe. I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry, we will have words,” Rafe said mildly. “Is everything okay in here?”

“Oh, sure,” Mercy said lightly. “I’m just having a minor nervous breakdown. But the tea seems to help.”

Rafe gave the mug in her hands a sharp glance. “Mom?”

Irina rolled her eyes. “It is peppermint tea, Raphael. I am not so careless as to give Mercy my special tea without asking her first.”

Mercy looked from Irina to Rafe. “Special tea? Do I want to know?”

“It’s THC-infused tea,” Rafe said. “Legal here.”

“But not in New Orleans,” Irina said sharply. “Do I look like duraska to you, dorogoy moy?”

“No, Mama,” Rafe said dutifully, dipping his head in apology. “You know I could never think you an idiot. But if Mercy gets drug tested when she goes back to work, that stuff sticks around.”

“Which is why I did not give it to her.” Irina nudged Mercy’s shoulder playfully. “But if you want some, you need only to ask.”

Mercy found herself laughing in earnest. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.” She glanced up at Rafe. “Don’t worry about me. I know what pot smells—and tastes—like. I was five years old the first time I tried it.”

Irina blinked, clearly shocked. “You were given it? By whom?”

“The community grew pot back then. I didn’t realize it when I was a kid, but I figured it out later, once I’d gotten out. It was their cash crop. The fields were huge. Pastor told us that it was for our own consumption and the healer used it for basic pain relief since we didn’t have access to pharmacies. But looking back, the yield was far more than the community could have used in a decade.”

“Did your mother give it to you?”

“Oh, no. The adults must have known what it was, but it was never discussed, at least not where the kids could hear. Mama got some from the healer for Amos’s arthritis. He was her husband until . . .” Her stomach took a nasty dip at the memory, and she sipped on the non-special tea, waiting until the wave had passed. “Until Gideon escaped. Amos was a good man. I think he truly believed in the community’s precepts. He was always good to me, anyway. But he had arthritis and his hands hurt when it got cold. He was a carpenter, so he needed his hands. Mama would make him the tea before he went to sleep and one night I tasted it when he wasn’t looking. That’s a taste I will never forget.”