“He knows his work,” Adare countered.

“Bilkin’ the rich, ya mean?” The woman shook her head dismissively. Something that might have been the shadow of pity flashed in her shrewd eyes. “No way ta stop the dimming,” she said. “Sorry, girl, but the light’s going, pretty cloth on your eyes or no.”

Adare nodded slowly. “I know that. It’s why I’m joining the pilgrimage, to show my devotion to Intarra. Perhaps the goddess will hear my prayers and restore my light.”

It had seemed an elegant solution—her disguise was also her motivation. With one story she could explain the blindfold and the journey both. Nira, however, seemed less than convinced. She cocked her head to one side, fixing Adare with one unwavering dark eye, a stare that seemed to stretch on half the morning.

“That’s what he thinks,” she said finally, waving the cane at her brother. “Hopes the goddess might unscramble his egg. I told ’im she’s just as likely ta hoist up m’tired old tits, and I ain’t countin’ on that, either.”

“Sister,” Oshi said, turning from the lashings. “Leave the girl her hope. Intarra is ancient and her ways are inscrutable. . . .”

“I’m ancient,” Nira snapped, “and I’ve screwed on a few tables, and I’ll tell ya this for free: better to ’ave a pig than a goddess.” She waved her cane at one of the black-bellied beasts nosing for scraps around the wheels of the wagon. “A pig’s real. You can hit a pig,” she said, thwacking the beast across the flank and earning an outraged squeal in response. “You can kick a pig. If you’re lonely and not particular, you can fuck a pig, and then, in the mornin’, butcher it up for bacon. A pig’s real,” she said again. “Realer than your flim-flammy bitch of a goddess.”

Oshi shook his head. “I have explained to you, sister, the importance of faith in these matters.”

“Yes,” Adare said, nodding eagerly. “I, too, have faith in the goddess. With her divine care, all will be well in the end.” It sounded like the sort of mindless patter a naïve young pilgrim might well believe.

Nira rolled her eyes. “Better a limp fuck than a whole bucket a’ faith. Faith gets ya killed, and you,” she continued, stabbing a finger at Adare, “oughta pay attention ta that little lesson. As for all bein’ well in the end, th’end’s gonna come sooner rather than later for you, ya don’t smarten up.”

Adare nodded hesitantly.

Nira waited for her to respond, then grimaced, glancing around at the milling crowd. “C’m’ere,” she muttered, lowering her voice, gesturing to the far side of the wagon where a crush of squealing black pigs had forced away the pilgrims. Adare didn’t move.