The girl sticks out her tongue but does not otherwise respond. 

Elanor sighs, purses her lips again. “I will return presently.” 

Stupid woman. Never stabbed us, though. She should suffer less than the others. Perhaps a twentieth as much. Does that sound right to you?

“Stupid,” the girl says. “About right.” 

Try to explain the mission to your sister without confusing or scaring her. She doesn't need to know the details. Couple of dead guards, framed another guard. All cultists dead, no extraneous evidence. Saved a slave, didn't know anything, want some money so she leaves and doesn't talk.

“Details,” the girl agrees. “What if she wants us to kill our new friend? Remember Lord Mclear? And he was a lord, not a slave.” 

Don't say she's a friend. The elf is a loose end, but one that you're cleaning up. You're the expert on how to get rid of people, after all, and once you have a bit of money for her to get out of the city, your sister will never need to hear of her again.

“She’s my friend, and I like her.” 

Your sister does not need to know this, fool, and is unlikely to do anything helpful with the information. The elf will live longer if you tell no one you wish to see her again.

“Oh. Yes. That makes sense. I didn’t realize we were lying to sister.” 

We are not lying to your sister. I have no stake in the survival of this elf. But if you wish to speak with her again, I suggest that you lie to your sister, yes.

“Yes. I like my new elf friend. I’m keeping her.” 

“Which elf would this be?” Elanor asks as she re-enters the dim chamber with a bowl of water, a rag, and a tiny sewing kit. 

Hmph. Tell her you're talking with me about whether you need to kill someone.

“Talking to the voice.” She says with forced cheer. “Going to do more murder.” 

“Oh honey,” Elanor sets down her burdens and slowly approaches the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you? There is no voice. The voice isn’t real.” 

She pets the girl’s fair hair and makes little cooing sounds, ignoring the way the girl freezes up under her touch. 

Stupid woman. Your problems are much deeper than my ability to speak. If I kept my words to myself you might be a drop more sane, but you'd be dead and abandoned by now, too.

“Probably I really wouldn’t be all that much more sane. I was very tortured for many days, after all.”

“Poor dear,” Elanor says, still petting the girl’s hair. “Poor dear. That doesn’t follow with what I said at all. Poor dear.”

The voice emits a soundless hiss of frustration.

Perhaps a little more than a twentieth the pain...

“Perhaps.” The girl wriggles away from her caretaker. “Do you want me to sew up the shoulder or use a healing potion? I know you only said water and washcloth, but even if I’m not sewing me, I can sew the tunic?” 

“Oh child,” Elanor coos. “I will fix your shoulder. Poor dear. You don’t have to sew it yourself. Honestly, why her highness keeps sending her poor stunted sister into dangerous situations… I will never know.” 

Better to save the potions for a worse injury. Treat the wound, if you feel the need.

“Sure,” she seats at the caretaker and starts stitching. A tiny needle is nothing beside the arcanist’s knives. “Fuck off. Go find my sister.”

“Language,” Elanor insists, but her heart isn’t in it. She fusses for a moment more and then bustles out of the little cave.