She listens intently, arms crossed. First she processes what Kamala isn't telling her: Regards from the devil. Then she can take herself through what she is, to find the spectre of him tethered to her by the memories of what he did to her and others the first time he returned from the dead. Even freed from his control, he was able to alienate her from her values again and again, principles she thought she'd already abandoned.

Jess struggles through a dry swallow and attempts a comforting pat of Kamala's shoulder that's more of an awkward prod of her fingers.

"Then let's get you to a nunnery," she urges gently, nodding towards the fountain and the village's main crossroads. "My house. I'm talking about my house, come on."