He—”

“Yes, child,” Uzfan said, lifting his hand wearily. “But let us keep our attention on this weaver and what he might do. I want you to beware of him.” Uzfan’s warning was so earnest, so well-intentioned, and yet it came far too late. She nearly laughed at the irony, but it wasn’t a good kind of laughter.  Instead, she took the old man’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my friend,” she murmured. “You are always good to me.”

“I worry, child. I worry.”

Alexeika released his hand, then drew her daggers and held one in each hand. Her heart was aflame, yet she felt cold and purposeful inside. “You are right to worry,” she said harshly. “The man has lost his senses. Papa’s money purse is missing. Everything of mine has been handled and disturbed. He even took something of my mother’s.”

Her voice quavered as she said the last, and she had to swallow a moment before she could command herself again.

“Child,” Uzfan said in sympathy.

Alexeika lifted her chin. “There is more to this sorry tale. Tonight, he waylaid me on the bank and tried to persuade me to elope with him.” “This is infamy!” Uzfan said in outrage. “Why did you not come to me at once?

Has he hurt you in any way?”

“Nay. ‘Twas he who suffered the hurt,” she said with grim satisfaction. “He must be driven from the camp. At once. I’m going to rouse everyone and ask for—” “Wait,” Uzfan said, gripping her arm to keep her from charging off. “Not in haste, child. Put up those daggers, and give yourself time to think calmly.” “Do you condone his actions?” she asked, shocked.