Dorna cocked her head. “Course she don’t. No one’s suggesting otherwise. Now why don’t you go check on our fine new friends from town—see how soon they’ll be ready for the funeral dinner? From the smell, I’d say somebody put some stew on or I’m still the Count of Leanan Pass.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t owe you thudajé, you old crone.”

Dorna grinned. “Oh, my sweet Baramon. You’re under the count’s idorrá now, and I’m her lead mare. Close enough, eh? Now git. This ain’t for your tender ears.”

Sir Baramon huffed and retreated to the impromptu kitchen.

“You don’t like him, do you?” Ninavis asked.

“Sir Baramon? I love him to bits. I’ve known him since we were both colts, and if I ran with stallions and he ran with mares, we’d have married years ago.” She made a face. “Should have, anyway. We’d have made great herd parents.”

Ninavis looked down at the sleeping girl. “She looks her age when she’s asleep.” The bandit leader eased down onto the box, sitting full upon it once it proved sturdy enough to hold her weight. “My Hava would be as old.”

Brother Qown grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Wasn’t your fault.” She stared down at her lap for a long moment. “She was a sweet girl. A heart as pure as spring. You ever have children, Dorna?”

The old woman smiled and gestured toward Janel. “Don’t that one count? I love her like she were my own.”

Brother Qown wasn’t sure if he dared ask what had happened to Ninavis’s daughter. The woman’s pain ached tangibly, dark and private.

Ninavis preempted the priest and pointed to the sleeping count. “My husband died in the Hellmarch she stopped. My daughter, after that.”

Dorna and Brother Qown both grew still.

Ninavis waited for them to say something, say anything, but what could they say?

“I saw what demons do to people,” Ninavis continued. “They do horrible things, but they don’t … they don’t ‘curse’ them. So why don’t you two stop lying and tell me what’s going on?”

“We’re not lying,” Brother Qown said. “Janel is a special case.”

“Is she a witch or not?”

Brother Qown cleared his throat. “If your definition is someone who makes bargains with demons, then the answer is no.” Brother Qown was skating around the question, qualifying it with technicalities, but what choice did he have? “Tamin isn’t a witch either. You people confuse being able to use magic with witchcraft, when it’s not the same thing at all.”

“Not my people,” Ninavis reminded him. “Anyway, just tell me what happened to her. Tell me why she’s like this.”