She looked to be very tired. Lysander saw her wince in pain for a moment and her left hand came up to cradle her right wrist in the sling. As soon as she noticed his gaze, she dropped her hand. She didn't seem to blame him at all, and he rather thought he deserved blame. He was willing to share responsibility with the demonic ram, or rather the sheep-herder who had not tied it tightly enough, but that did not detract from the solid fact that had Lysander never ridden into the village, Gemma would not now be pale from the ache in her wrist.

He should say something. He should offer well-meant words, fluid expressions of regret, or something solicitous, shouldn't he? Didn't people like to hear those things?

Or did they? He could not quite pin it down. He had already apologized. She had accepted his apology. To ask her to accept another one seemed rather self-serving. As if he expected her to make him feel better for what had happened.

However, since no one spoke, Lysander had no idea how to break the silence. Then he remembered how the clouds had begun to come in low and heavy and there been a sharp scent in the air.

"Will it rain?" There! That had come out in a very nearly civilized fashion.

He waited for Mrs. Oakes to respond, but it was Bing who spoke around a mouthful of stew. "Aye, it may, a bit. I shouldn't think it'll amount to much." His tone of vast experience with the local weather seemed to put a halt to the topic.

Silence fell once more. Lysander began to worry about Gemma. She seemed to be fading, too weary or too sore to finish her bowl of stew. She had not touched her bread and Lysander realized that she not been able to tear it the way he and Bing had.

He solved that issue by simply reaching across the table and doing it himself. Gemma blinked at the sudden action and then smiled at him in thanks.

Lysander spent the rest of the meal dazed by that smile.

AFTER MR. BING HAD scraped his bowl most thoroughly with his spoon, he bobbed a gruff "Thank ye, Missus," in Gemma's direction and stomped out the kitchen door "t'see to the beasties."

When Mr. Worthington started to push back his chair to follow Mr. Bing, Gemma waved him back to his seat. "There's no need. 'Seeing to the beasties' is merely a euphemism for sitting in the stable with Mrs. Apples and having himself a pipe. He knows that I do not approve of smoking tobacco."

Then she gazed at Mr. Worthington in dismay. "Unless you care to join him? I didn't think to ask if you like tobacco as well."