There was more to the story. So much more. To her astonishment, Madeleine found herself ravenous for it. Why? When Harry Duggan had tried to gossip yesterday, she hadn’t been able to escape fast enough. The carrot Hæra dangled in front of her, however, was impossible not to grasp at. She could ask, couldn’t she? They were talking about it, weren’t they? Hæra could tell her if she didn’t want to talk about it. She seemed blunt enough for that.

“You mentioned other family,” Madeleine said. “Where do you come from originally, if not Orkney?”

Again, Hæra hesitated. Then she said, “My family were nomadic. I’m not really ‘from’ anywhere.”

“Nomadic? Are you Romani?” The Roma encountered plenty of prejudice, which might explain Hæra’s reluctance to go into more detail. It also might explain her accent, which was subtly different from Jonathan’s and other native islanders’. Hæra’s accent was lower, sharper. It sounded like the rhythms of the sea.

“No,” Hæra said, putting paid to that theory.

When no more information seemed forthcoming, Madeleine said, “It must have been a challenge to settle down here.”

“You have no idea,” Hæra said dryly. “I grew up roaming with my h…family, and now I rarely leave the farm.” Before Madeleine could ask about that, she added, “And you? Did you grow up in your convent?”

“Goodness, no.” Outsiders had such strange ideas about nuns. “I was born in New Orleans. I didn’t join the Daughters of Grace until after I graduated college. Most orders require postulants to be at least eighteen, preferably a little older.”

“New Orleans,” Hæra said slowly, as if testing the words. “A city in the United States.”

A famous one, yes. Madeleine had never met anyone who hadn’t heard of it. Hæra sounded uncertain, though. What had her education been like? If her family had been nomadic, as she’d said, maybe she’d bounced from school to school. Or maybe she’d been homeschooled. Or not schooled at all. It might also explain why she was so…shaky when it came to the social graces.

Under those circumstances, where on earth had she found the money to start a farm? Probably nothing Hæra would want to tell or Madeleine ought to know. She seemed to be living a respectable life now. Everyone deserved a second chance.

“New Orleans is pretty famous—or infamous—for being a party town,” she said. “The motto is ‘Let the good times roll.’”

“A party?” Madeleine could have sworn Hæra’s ears pricked up. “That sounds like fun.”

“It depends on your idea of fun. For me⁠—”

“Ah! Look!”

Without further warning, Hæra swerved the Gator off the path. Madeleine yelped and grabbed the hip restraint tighter.