Adhemar's eyes track the box where it lands, then return to Johanna. He listens with fixed attentiveness as she speaks, his congregation of one. She won't want a sermon.

Perhaps she needs one.

"It could have been your throat under the knife. Or mine. Or the baker boy's. In some other village on some other day, it undoubtedly was." No one slits a throat that cleanly and quickly without practice. He makes a vague gesture with one hand and goes on. "A Shepherd wears the mantle of judge and executioner both, and reality orients itself around their verdict, rather than the reverse. It is astounding hubris."

There--genuine resentment has crept into his voice without his permission, twisted his lips expression ever so subtly with his contempt. He takes a breath, schooling it away. "And they'd kill us both in an eyeblink if they overheard us speaking, or heard you--" pause, "--rearranging your furniture so assiduously after this execution."