"I- err . . ." Morgaine mumbled. It was a strange question. Was it a test of some kind? She gave the old man another look, this time more thoroughly. Yet, no matter how she considered him, the only answer she could come up with was the same. This was nothing more than a kind old man. She could trust him. It was almost infuriating, how intrusive that thought had become. Yet, something told her that wasn't what Vicar Harold wanted to hear from her. She had to come up with something, even if it was a bold-faced lie. "Well . . ." She shuffled her feet a bit, trying to look away from him. Trying to stimulate her legs, which tended to have a habit of stimulating her mind as well. "I think . . . that you're . . . a man. That you are old. An old man, sir. And . . . that . . . I feel you're no particular danger to me, I spose. You remind me of my grandpappy, in some ways. Disregarding the love of the hard whiskey, of course." 

Yet, a nagging idea tugged at her mind. These flowers, the old vicar, the walls themselves, they were all in concert trying to hide . . . something, somehow. It was like she was near-sighted, having put on her da's spectacles and is stumbling about the open chamber in them, but this was happening not with her eyes, but her mind. She couldn't make sense of it. Something was missing. Did Dietrich see it? Was he keeping silent on the old vicar's orders? What did Dietrich, a big man with a bigger blade, have to fear from this wrinkled bundle of sticks? Morgaine was suddenly struck with a profane shame for thinking of Vicar Harold in that way. She nearly mumbled an apology before stopping halfway through the first word. It felt as if the old man could read her mind, and he wanted her to know as much.