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Searyn had obeyed Frodides when the elderly cook had told her to sit and wait. She remained at the small table, peeling potatoes with half a will. Her tears were finally drying, and she set her mind to how she would word her apology when the time came.
She did not turn her head when she heard Lithor giving his announcement, though her hands paused in their work and she listened to him. She nodded when he was through and the potato lost another strip of skin, when Frodides, looking up beyond Saeryn, said, “Ah, look who we have here!”
Saeryn glanced up at her and saw the bright, expectant light in her eyes and turned sharply around. She froze like a startled deer for half a second and then she shut her mouth, whipped back around, and gathered her courage. The next moment she was on her feet, the potato and knife laid aside, and slowly turned to face Eodwine and Degas.
“My lord,” she said, quietly. Her hands twisted together in front of her. She looked at Degas and met his eye. “Brother.” Vaguely, she was aware of Frodides getting up and quietly slipping away, giving them as much privacy as the corner of the crowded tent could afford. She tried to remember what she had planned to say, but looking now at Degas again, the words didn't come. “I acted badly outside a little while ago,” she faltered. Her eyes fell away from Degas’ face and she looked down at the ground between them. “I am sorry.”
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