Nor I, you. Why should there be control, one of the other?
“Nor does he stay out of personal conversations,” I observed.
“Nor personal anything,” Burrich said flatly. He spoke in the voice of a man who knew.
“I thought you said you never used … it.” Even out here, I would not say “the Wit” aloud.
“I don’t. No good comes of it. I will tell you plainly now what I’ve told you before. It … changes you. If you give in to it. If you live it. If you can’t shut it out, at least don’t seek after it. Don’t become-”
“Burrich?”
We both jumped. It was Foxglove, come quietly out of the darkness to stand on the other side of the fire. How much had she heard?
“Yes? Is there a problem?”
She hunkered down in the darkness, lifted her red hands to the fire. She sighed. “I don’t know. How do I ask this? Are you aware she’s pregnant?”
Burrich and I exchanged glances. “Who?” he asked levelly.
“I’ve got two children of my own, you know. And most of her guard is women. She pukes every morning, and lives off raspberry-leaf tea. She can’t even look at the salt fish without retching. She shouldn’t be here, living like this.” Foxglove nodded toward the tent.
Oh. The Vixen.
Shut up.
“She did not ask our advice,” Burrich said carefully.
“The situation here is under control. There is no reason she should not be sent back to Buckkeep,” Foxglove said calmly.
“I can’t imagine `sending her back’ to anywhere,” Burrich observed. “I think it would have to be a decision she reached on her own.”
“You might suggest it to her,” Foxglove ventured.