"Well," she hedges, knowing she might stumble over the words, because they're still so new to being spoken aloud, "I think of it because, a while ago now, somebody cast a spell on me against my will and it—uh, lead to the memory loss, so I... I wonder."

It can work like this, Gela peeling the story back layer by layer until they get to the raw, beating heart of the thing. She can do this.

She is quite still now, looking at the desk rather than him, like a child admitting to wrong-doing.