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Could I put what I experienced earlier that day into words? The feeling of Vanni inside of me? The bond that had formed between us, so strong I would have thought it unbreakable if he had not snapped it so quickly afterward?

“I am a fool,” I repeat, shoving aside the comforting words Vanni spoke the other night. He compared my practice to that of a childless midwife. But it is different. So different.

“Amma knew,” Kipp says, his words barely a whisper. “She did not think you less of a Garra because of it.”

Amma. I dishonor her memory by worrying about Vanni when I should be mourning.

“What would she say if you told her what you told me about Vanni?”

I only need to consider it for a moment. The answer is as clear to me as my memory of her smile, for she always asked the same thing of the people who came to her for help in matters of love.

“She would have asked if I love him.”

Amma had claimed the heart always, always knew, even when the mind did not. And that love was a greater healer than marigold or mallow. No herb or stone or talisman could properly substitute for it. She had loved my grandfather, whom I never knew. And taught her daughter to marry for love too.

“Do you believe in marrying for love, Kipp?”

It’s been some time since we’ve discussed the subject, though I’m sure I already know his answer.

“Few in this world can afford the luxury.”

Voyagers might be freer than most, certainly more so than those from Meria or Edingham, but there are disadvantages to living in such a small place.

“Do you suppose I’ve fallen for Vanni simply because he is not from Murwood?” I ask.

Kipp puts the knife down on a table next to him in favor of a mug of ale.

“Fallen? I’d think you of all people would be brave enough to say the word, Aedre.”

I slink into a velvet-lined chair across from my friend, the sky now completely dark.

“Love.”

Amma always described love as both wondrous and treacherous, a healer and the source of sorrow. I thought I understood. I love her. And Father. And Kipp.

But this is different. This type of love has fangs.

One of Kipp’s brows lifts. “Have you fallen for any of the other men who’ve come through here?” he asks. “There are plenty of them, are there not?”

Indeed.

“You have no other words of wisdom?”

Kipp shrugs. “You’ve made it clear you’ll not marry him. What wisdom could I offer? He will leave, if he’s not done so already, and you will likely never see the man again.”

“You are no Amma,” I mutter.

“Nay, I am not.”

“Do you truly believe he only cared for me as a way to gain access to you?”

I know better than to think it, but I am curious whether Kipp still believes it to be so.

He gives me a long look and, as if what he saw made him pity me, proceeds to stand and pour me a mug of ale. Once it passes from his hand to mine, he sits again.

“Nay, I do not. I saw the fire in his eyes when Father Beald walked into Lord Bailor’s hall. His reaction was not feigned.”

Which reminds me. “Speaking of Lord Bailor . . . they say the queen’s commander is his guest. Does that not surprise you?”