[ Mordred stills instantly at the question, not having anticipated it. In retrospect, she obviously should have, but she'd been so focused on Gray's answer about her mother, vicariously imagining a fantasy in which her own would care so much, that she allowed herself to be caught off guard. ]

... I don't have anything to say to that witch. If she shows up, it'll be Clarent doing the talking.

[ Though Gray might notice that her expression doesn't quite reflect the surety of her claim — it's angry, yes, but her pensiveness betrays something deeper; an emotion not so easily put into words. One thing is for certain: the bad vibes are strong. ]

Besides, what's there to ask? "Why did you hate the king so much?" I already know that. "Why did you curse me with this form?" I know that, too. [ And yet it's clear she's thinking about it. That she's been thinking about it for a long time. ] There's nothing she can say that would satisfy me. Hell, I don't even know if her death would. [ She seems surprised at admitting this. Norangie headbutts her with a tiny mew of concern, but she's too distracted to acknowledge it, and one of her hands curls into a fist. ] Even so, I'd cut her down without a second thought. I know her tricks, so it'd be easy.

[ No it wouldn't. It'd be nothing short of a suicide mission, utterly doomed to failure, but she'd still do it. ]