A palm pressed against her mouth until she felt the slithering worm of oil snap back, back -- she swallowed several times, almost devouring the thing, but it was gone in but a blink of an eye. Vanished, along with the threat. A pounding cadence still hummed inside her hollow tooth.
Giuseppe was no longer with them, nor was his knife. Only his memory lingered in the air like the crackling static after a wild storm. Clinging to her sweat. Hiding in the folds of her skirt. Everywhere. In her mouth, the taste of leady blood sticking to the top of her mouth. Her stomach turned, moaned. She rapidly gulped several times, trying to rid her mouth of the gathering saliva. Her mouth was lubricating itself, ready to vomit, fortifying itself to expel everything -- peppermint tea, old broth, anything.
But nothing came. She kept it down.
Look at her, bella. Look at what churns within.
"He is no man to talk to," she whispered, not challenging Rhaena's quiet reprimand, but confirming -- resolving -- that her desire to protect herself and the woman was not misdirected. "He has willingly put children who learn under this very roof in danger, Menna. A man like that deserves no credence. Not -- not from you, not from me. You see?"
She wiped her mouth, dragged her sleeve and silver hand across her lips. Hardly ladylike. Yet, with quiet obedience still shaping her gait, she stepped to the woman's desk, put her knuckles against it, and asked, "You are not going to -- to give me a ruler, are you? Or a steel rod, for the wrists."
Years of surprises, Gloria Wynsee. Years of inevitability. I await them.
"I did what I thought was right. I did right, didn't I?"