Overture Downs they placed fire-licked pages at the foot of the crown

Whatever social norms exist outside of the temple, she does not know them nor is she particularly interested in assimilating. Wardruna seems to have plans for his companions that she is not yet privy too, but in the meantime, perhaps she will give herself in to this new freedom. Could she hear the thoughts of the other woman, she would have laughed; not raised the same, indeed. But she doesn't and so she considers the two questions under her sleepy smirk, amused by their contradiction.

"Anything," she tells Mary, "for I know little of this world." She is sheltered but not a fool. She understands the gists of pack structure, the petty drama of the lives of those outside the temple. She'd heard stories from traveling visitors, though the sorts that were drawn to her home came for blessing, for relief, they were not the sort to have normal tales. 

Mary's question about her lingers. "To the poet," she begins, and then stops herself, breath catching (a hiccup in truth). That is not hers now, that is what she decided when she rebirthed herself in icy creek. Were she sober, she might be more reticent, more wary, but now, she laughs and it comes out a sighing giggle. "I am a sinner," she says, not as confessional but as objective truth. "I am nothing now, flesh granted speech." I am nothing, the thought that both terrifies and entices her. What is nothing if not a starting place? She can be reshaped, perhaps by Wardruna's rough paws, perhaps by the coming winter, perhaps by these mundane encounters in this strange new land. In her haze it becomes clear: this is freedom, escape. She knows there are no gods to punish her and she's already accepted she's too selfish to punish herself, with no one to bear witness.

So let this be the moment the babe's eyes open.