Greta cants her head a little as he begins to sing, the melody drawing her in with its vague familiarity - it reminds her of some of the simpler folk songs from her home - but then stopping her at arm's length with its odd progression. She wants to find it comforting, but can't, quite.

Of course, the refrain doesn't help. Has your mama been gone too long? She hasn't been gone a week, but she still worries about how her little family is faring. The littlest, in particular. How is her son supposed to do without her? Aren't there enough motherless children out there without consigning him to the list as well?

She keeps her promise not to interrupt; she won't spoil this novel opportunity for the Balladeer. But her smile fades, and her hands are no longer folded so much as clenched together.