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What moments ago was a stinging pain on Ginna's palm had diminished to a dull throb. Frodides was right - the wound wasn't deep. Ginna had watched as blood spilled generously from the cut, swirling, staining the water pink, and then, overwhelmed by it, vanishing. Now the spectacle of liquid converging with liquid was over, leaving the water to dance contentedly by itself as Ginna's fingers wriggled in its midst, delighting in its soothing coolness.
Ginna turned to watch Frodides sweep away the debris on the floor. Stupid girl, of course there's a broom, she silently berated herself. She looked again at her wound. It still smarted a bit, but once bandaged she knew it would no longer be a bother. She had been hurt worse.
The last traces of the broken dishes had disappeared beneath the broom, and along with it came a little of Ginna's guilt and shame. Perhaps, she thought, Frodides was not at all as stern as she first appeared. What the Lord Eodwine - and her father - had to say on what happened she was yet to hear, but for the moment she was spared from the judgment. It was as though Frodides knew exactly how she felt.
"Thank you," Ginna sighed, supposedly meant for her ears alone, but too deep in her own thoughts she did not hear how silent the kitchen had become.
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