It weighs a little more uncomfortably on Gwenaëlle’s shoulders. There are more factors in her equation to add together, more incongruous pieces of the whole to fit together, trying to make the edges line up.

For Astrid, who called all of this home until only very recently, it melds more easily. If the Gallows tower stairs wind in circles and then inexplicably become a mountain, what of it? Sometimes you carve a staircase into a mountainside. If the everyday details get a little hazy on the specifics of her uncle’s work because she’s not a magic-user herself, then what of it? She’s not paying especial attention to that when there’s so much else to occupy her: the pleasant burn of hiking up to the peak at dawn, pleasant liquor to share with friends, pleasant men to warm her bed.

(It presents a distraction, and she is distracted.)

And when Gwenaëlle’s frown deepens and her focus drifts, then Morgana pulls harder, a sharp and almost vindictive yank to haul her attention back to heel, but when her mother turns to look then the girl is all smiles again. “Can you do it? I want to see you do it. So I can copy.”

Astrid gamely flips her hunting knife. Holds it out to the other woman hilt-first.