Later she found Leachim sitting in the herbarium, his robe hitched around his knees and sandalled feet hooked behind the rungs of his stool. On the table before him sat a pestle and mortar, a few seeds, several dried leaves, and a single flower head.
‘Greetings, heartling. How are the aches this morning?’
‘Improving.’ She handed back the lotion and sat on another stool. ‘I want to ask you something.’
Leachim dropped a few of the leaves into the mortar, gave them a few taps with the pestle and set it aside. ‘First, let me see your hands. Hmm. Good. Keep them open to the air but clean. And your questions?’ He raised both eyebrows and waited.
‘The Gift,’ she said after some deliberation. ‘How does it determine right from wrong?’
‘A little more detail, please.’ He picked up the pestle.
‘
