“They told her it was a variety of love potion, did they?”

“A love spell, yes, though not a potion per se.  That’s what her father said,” he confirmed.  “He was the lord who knighted me.  I heard from him after…after she’d been dealt with.  He was quite horrified.”

“I reckon he would be.”  Sionann brought a mismatched tea service to the table, with cups and teapot all unalike, and every spoon a different size and design.  As she set the places, her jade-colored eyes wandered to Henry.  “How about him?  Curse?  Illness?”

“Ah— ahaha…lack of sleep.”

“Oh?”

“S—!  Stop smirking!”  Never had an expression made him feel so scandalized.  And for what purpose?  Roderick scrubbed at his burning cheeks.  “The curse…is active at night.  ‘For as long as the night is dark,’ as it goes.  When the curse takes over, I lose all good sense and run off hither and yon.  Henry keeps track of me and protects any people we come across.”

Though the deep, enduring furrow between her brows didn’t change, the set of her chin did.  Sionann observed Henry for another few seconds with a worried tilt to her head.

“I suppose that explains those injuries, then,” she muttered.  She turned away again, and moved toward the alcove with its wealth of alchemy equipment, calling at him carelessly over her shoulder, “Have the tea before it’s cold.”

“What about you?”

“Back in a bit.”

Several mysterious leaves were ground together.  Their powder was added to other powder, was mixed, was added to an unidentifiable but virulently-colored liquid.  She shook and boiled and tossed in more plants and liquids, boiled some more; and once satisfied, she left the bottle to warm and simmer in the warm, glowing coals of a stone oven.  She nodded to herself and muttered less-grumpy-sounding things as she made her way to join him at the table. 

Roderick’s was cup emptied as she’d instructed, so Sionann poured them both a fresh serving…and despite the passage of time, steam still rose from the blend with a heady savor.

“Alright, then.  Do you know exactly what the nitwit who spelled you asked for?”

“To call her a nitwit—!”

“I can offer more adjectives.  Plenty more, and plenty more insulting.  What did that addle-headed saddle-goose ask for?”

“I- Word for word?”  He still felt the need to defend her honor, though he knew the lady in question had none.

“If you can,” Sionann said.  She leaned back and took a long draught from her cup.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the details,” he confessed.  “We left the capital within a few days, since none of the court alchemists could conjure a proper cure.”

“Older magic, then.”

“I believe she said she procured it from a witch.”

“If a witch, a shamaness, and one of the fair folk walked into a tavern with you, would you be able to tell who was which?”

“…I would not.” 

She nodded firmly.  “I thought as much.  Whatever the selfish bratling says, your kind generally see any women meddling amongst medicines and magics as witches.  It means nothing.”

“Is that why you call yourself a…a nocticary?”

“That’s for another conversation,” she said flatly, cup set down with an imperious clatter.  The knit between her brows deepened with her glare.  “Now.  Answer my question.”