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Sofia was a good sister. She had always, undoubtedly, been a far better sibling than Pavlos, who had never once cared for Rafail's antics. To give him some credit, he had tried a few times, when they were much younger, to interact with his little brother, but the thirteen years between them had always made matters complicated, and Pavlos had already been married and interested in other issues by the time Rafail was old enough to be an exciting companion. It was only lucky, then, that Mama had managed to have a daughter so soon after he was born. She was not entirely the miracle he had been, but she was perfect in the role nonetheless, kind and attentive and shocked in all the right parts of his story.
He supposed he could forgive her for the crime of missing the race, just this once. Rafail should have known that Sofia was not so keen on the sport in the same way as he, although he assumed it was, in some part, because she was a woman and could not partake (and, as his sister, she had no ulterior reason to watch like the rest of the ladies). He tried to smile, though it was half a grimace as the physician momentarily adjusted his hands and managed to press down on a particularly painful spot. "You will have to sing it to me later, and then perhaps I can try and reproduce the piece for you, if you liked it so much." He paused, gaze drifting down to his leg once more, his dramatics only momentarily halted before he added: "If I can manage."
"I'll dedicate my next one to you, and then I promise I'll win in your name, Sofi," he assured her, though he wasn't all too sure how long it would be until he would be able to race once more. Even without the searing pain in his leg, it would likely still take a while before he was able to stand comfortably in a chariot again, particularly enough so to compete. "I took my new chariot. You remember, the one in Marikas colours I got just for this? It was ruined in the race but, well, Papa will get me a new one, I'm sure." As for horses, he had not chosen any that were especially dear to him, for it was not his favourites that were used for the racing, but he cared for them nonetheless, and would never have chosen anything less than great. "Leventi. The black stallions, you might remember them? They were always a strong pair; I think they will be fine." In truth, he had been far more concerned at the time by his own horrid injury than the wellbeing of his beloved horses, though a worry for their health lingered still at the back of his mind.
Holding his goblet out towards his sister, Rafail tilted his head towards the jug of water at his side. "You wouldn't mind replacing this with wine, would you? I think I have a lovely Messaly vintage, if you would like some. It should dull the pain a little better and, besides, it has been a long time since it's been just you and me and we could talk like this." Physician notwithstanding. "I think it might be best if you tell me about the rest of the festival for now, as if I think any more about that gods-forsaken race then I think I might die of the shame of losing. Imagine a Marikas losing. Did you manage to find any trinkets, or shall I have to take my sister on a little shopping trip?"
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Sofia was a good sister. She had always, undoubtedly, been a far better sibling than Pavlos, who had never once cared for Rafail's antics. To give him some credit, he had tried a few times, when they were much younger, to interact with his little brother, but the thirteen years between them had always made matters complicated, and Pavlos had already been married and interested in other issues by the time Rafail was old enough to be an exciting companion. It was only lucky, then, that Mama had managed to have a daughter so soon after he was born. She was not entirely the miracle he had been, but she was perfect in the role nonetheless, kind and attentive and shocked in all the right parts of his story.
He supposed he could forgive her for the crime of missing the race, just this once. Rafail should have known that Sofia was not so keen on the sport in the same way as he, although he assumed it was, in some part, because she was a woman and could not partake (and, as his sister, she had no ulterior reason to watch like the rest of the ladies). He tried to smile, though it was half a grimace as the physician momentarily adjusted his hands and managed to press down on a particularly painful spot. "You will have to sing it to me later, and then perhaps I can try and reproduce the piece for you, if you liked it so much." He paused, gaze drifting down to his leg once more, his dramatics only momentarily halted before he added: "If I can manage."
"I'll dedicate my next one to you, and then I promise I'll win in your name, Sofi," he assured her, though he wasn't all too sure how long it would be until he would be able to race once more. Even without the searing pain in his leg, it would likely still take a while before he was able to stand comfortably in a chariot again, particularly enough so to compete. "I took my new chariot. You remember, the one in Marikas colours I got just for this? It was ruined in the race but, well, Papa will get me a new one, I'm sure." As for horses, he had not chosen any that were especially dear to him, for it was not his favourites that were used for the racing, but he cared for them nonetheless, and would never have chosen anything less than great. "Leventi. The black stallions, you might remember them? They were always a strong pair; I think they will be fine." In truth, he had been far more concerned at the time by his own horrid injury than the wellbeing of his beloved horses, though a worry for their health lingered still at the back of his mind.
Holding his goblet out towards his sister, Rafail tilted his head towards the jug of water at his side. "You wouldn't mind replacing this with wine, would you? I think I have a lovely Messaly vintage, if you would like some. It should dull the pain a little better and, besides, it has been a long time since it's been just you and me and we could talk like this." Physician notwithstanding. "I think it might be best if you tell me about the rest of the festival for now, as if I think any more about that gods-forsaken race then I think I might die of the shame of losing. Imagine a Marikas losing. Did you manage to find any trinkets, or shall I have to take my sister on a little shopping trip?"
Sofia was a good sister. She had always, undoubtedly, been a far better sibling than Pavlos, who had never once cared for Rafail's antics. To give him some credit, he had tried a few times, when they were much younger, to interact with his little brother, but the thirteen years between them had always made matters complicated, and Pavlos had already been married and interested in other issues by the time Rafail was old enough to be an exciting companion. It was only lucky, then, that Mama had managed to have a daughter so soon after he was born. She was not entirely the miracle he had been, but she was perfect in the role nonetheless, kind and attentive and shocked in all the right parts of his story.
He supposed he could forgive her for the crime of missing the race, just this once. Rafail should have known that Sofia was not so keen on the sport in the same way as he, although he assumed it was, in some part, because she was a woman and could not partake (and, as his sister, she had no ulterior reason to watch like the rest of the ladies). He tried to smile, though it was half a grimace as the physician momentarily adjusted his hands and managed to press down on a particularly painful spot. "You will have to sing it to me later, and then perhaps I can try and reproduce the piece for you, if you liked it so much." He paused, gaze drifting down to his leg once more, his dramatics only momentarily halted before he added: "If I can manage."
"I'll dedicate my next one to you, and then I promise I'll win in your name, Sofi," he assured her, though he wasn't all too sure how long it would be until he would be able to race once more. Even without the searing pain in his leg, it would likely still take a while before he was able to stand comfortably in a chariot again, particularly enough so to compete. "I took my new chariot. You remember, the one in Marikas colours I got just for this? It was ruined in the race but, well, Papa will get me a new one, I'm sure." As for horses, he had not chosen any that were especially dear to him, for it was not his favourites that were used for the racing, but he cared for them nonetheless, and would never have chosen anything less than great. "Leventi. The black stallions, you might remember them? They were always a strong pair; I think they will be fine." In truth, he had been far more concerned at the time by his own horrid injury than the wellbeing of his beloved horses, though a worry for their health lingered still at the back of his mind.
Holding his goblet out towards his sister, Rafail tilted his head towards the jug of water at his side. "You wouldn't mind replacing this with wine, would you? I think I have a lovely Messaly vintage, if you would like some. It should dull the pain a little better and, besides, it has been a long time since it's been just you and me and we could talk like this." Physician notwithstanding. "I think it might be best if you tell me about the rest of the festival for now, as if I think any more about that gods-forsaken race then I think I might die of the shame of losing. Imagine a Marikas losing. Did you manage to find any trinkets, or shall I have to take my sister on a little shopping trip?"
Seeing her brother in pain never got any easier. Usually he was the one protecting her and keeping her out of trouble, like the time he rescued her from the tree she’d been foolish enough to climb. He would never let her get hurt, not if there was anything he could do about it. But she hadn’t protected him—not that she could have stopped a crashing chariot—and worse, she hadn’t even been there when it happened. The guilt continued to gnaw at her stomach.
Sofia had little talent when it came to music. The harp piece had been lovely—she had not lied—but it was fading in and out of her ears with little rhyme or reason. It would be a miracle if she managed to recall enough of it for Raf to put to his harp. “I’ll see if I can find the harpist,” she promised, smiling softly. “I’m sure he’d be honored to teach you the notes.” That would be much better than her half-hearted attempts at singing, at any rate. Her voice was passable, as she’d had endless lessons as a child, but she found little joy in the creation of music, a fact that Raf seemed unable to comprehend.
She squeezed her brother’s hand a bit tighter at the mention of his destroyed chariot, gasping a bit in sympathy. She knew all too well how much he’d loved that chariot—he’d raved about it endlessly when it was first completed. Still, he was right. Papa was sure to replace it before too much time passed. “I’ll be sure to give you a trinket of some kind to put in the next one, for luck!” Sofia’s smile broadened, “Not that you’ll need it.”
“I’ll check on your horses myself,” she added, sure that he would send her with a checklist of what to look for. She knew horses fairly well, and shared her brother’s interest in them, but he had acquired far more knowledge than she in his extra years of life. “Those horses are lovely—I’m sure they’re getting the best possible care. And if not, they will be once I’ve spoken to the stable boys.”
At Raf’s request, she rose, taking the goblet from his hand. “Of course!” Anything to help, anything to make up for the bitter guilt, to replace the smile on her brother’s face. A quick walk across the room saw his goblet filled, and another, smaller goblet for herself. She handed his carefully back to him and sipped at hers, trying not to make a face. Sofia could tell it was high quality, indeed, but her taste for wine was far from fully acquired.
“I heard some of the ‘latest’ gossip from the townsfolk,” she smiled, giggling a little to herself. Taking snippets of conversation and weaving them into dramatic life stories was one of her favorite hobbies. “Mikolaos, the butcher’s son, was seen attempting to pick a bouquet for one of the tailor’s daughters. He was not so good with a small knife as he might appear in the shop.” Sofia laughed some more, picturing the wilted, cropped bunch of flowers.
But Raf didn’t care much for the poors, and Sofia knew it. She’d have to come up with something better. “Oh! I got you this.” She reached into the bag at her feet and pulled out a little gold pin, holding it out to her brother. It was a little tree enclosed in a circle, with delicate leaves carved into it and a single bird (perhaps an owl) perched in the branches. The craftsmanship was superb; when she’d seen it, she knew she had to get it for Raf. Sofia had wanted to save it for some special conversation, but now seemed as good a time as any. “I got a stretch of fabric and some jewelry for myself, too, but this was by far the best thing!” She smiled hopefully at him and took another sip of wine, nose crinkling the tiniest bit.
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Seeing her brother in pain never got any easier. Usually he was the one protecting her and keeping her out of trouble, like the time he rescued her from the tree she’d been foolish enough to climb. He would never let her get hurt, not if there was anything he could do about it. But she hadn’t protected him—not that she could have stopped a crashing chariot—and worse, she hadn’t even been there when it happened. The guilt continued to gnaw at her stomach.
Sofia had little talent when it came to music. The harp piece had been lovely—she had not lied—but it was fading in and out of her ears with little rhyme or reason. It would be a miracle if she managed to recall enough of it for Raf to put to his harp. “I’ll see if I can find the harpist,” she promised, smiling softly. “I’m sure he’d be honored to teach you the notes.” That would be much better than her half-hearted attempts at singing, at any rate. Her voice was passable, as she’d had endless lessons as a child, but she found little joy in the creation of music, a fact that Raf seemed unable to comprehend.
She squeezed her brother’s hand a bit tighter at the mention of his destroyed chariot, gasping a bit in sympathy. She knew all too well how much he’d loved that chariot—he’d raved about it endlessly when it was first completed. Still, he was right. Papa was sure to replace it before too much time passed. “I’ll be sure to give you a trinket of some kind to put in the next one, for luck!” Sofia’s smile broadened, “Not that you’ll need it.”
“I’ll check on your horses myself,” she added, sure that he would send her with a checklist of what to look for. She knew horses fairly well, and shared her brother’s interest in them, but he had acquired far more knowledge than she in his extra years of life. “Those horses are lovely—I’m sure they’re getting the best possible care. And if not, they will be once I’ve spoken to the stable boys.”
At Raf’s request, she rose, taking the goblet from his hand. “Of course!” Anything to help, anything to make up for the bitter guilt, to replace the smile on her brother’s face. A quick walk across the room saw his goblet filled, and another, smaller goblet for herself. She handed his carefully back to him and sipped at hers, trying not to make a face. Sofia could tell it was high quality, indeed, but her taste for wine was far from fully acquired.
“I heard some of the ‘latest’ gossip from the townsfolk,” she smiled, giggling a little to herself. Taking snippets of conversation and weaving them into dramatic life stories was one of her favorite hobbies. “Mikolaos, the butcher’s son, was seen attempting to pick a bouquet for one of the tailor’s daughters. He was not so good with a small knife as he might appear in the shop.” Sofia laughed some more, picturing the wilted, cropped bunch of flowers.
But Raf didn’t care much for the poors, and Sofia knew it. She’d have to come up with something better. “Oh! I got you this.” She reached into the bag at her feet and pulled out a little gold pin, holding it out to her brother. It was a little tree enclosed in a circle, with delicate leaves carved into it and a single bird (perhaps an owl) perched in the branches. The craftsmanship was superb; when she’d seen it, she knew she had to get it for Raf. Sofia had wanted to save it for some special conversation, but now seemed as good a time as any. “I got a stretch of fabric and some jewelry for myself, too, but this was by far the best thing!” She smiled hopefully at him and took another sip of wine, nose crinkling the tiniest bit.
Seeing her brother in pain never got any easier. Usually he was the one protecting her and keeping her out of trouble, like the time he rescued her from the tree she’d been foolish enough to climb. He would never let her get hurt, not if there was anything he could do about it. But she hadn’t protected him—not that she could have stopped a crashing chariot—and worse, she hadn’t even been there when it happened. The guilt continued to gnaw at her stomach.
Sofia had little talent when it came to music. The harp piece had been lovely—she had not lied—but it was fading in and out of her ears with little rhyme or reason. It would be a miracle if she managed to recall enough of it for Raf to put to his harp. “I’ll see if I can find the harpist,” she promised, smiling softly. “I’m sure he’d be honored to teach you the notes.” That would be much better than her half-hearted attempts at singing, at any rate. Her voice was passable, as she’d had endless lessons as a child, but she found little joy in the creation of music, a fact that Raf seemed unable to comprehend.
She squeezed her brother’s hand a bit tighter at the mention of his destroyed chariot, gasping a bit in sympathy. She knew all too well how much he’d loved that chariot—he’d raved about it endlessly when it was first completed. Still, he was right. Papa was sure to replace it before too much time passed. “I’ll be sure to give you a trinket of some kind to put in the next one, for luck!” Sofia’s smile broadened, “Not that you’ll need it.”
“I’ll check on your horses myself,” she added, sure that he would send her with a checklist of what to look for. She knew horses fairly well, and shared her brother’s interest in them, but he had acquired far more knowledge than she in his extra years of life. “Those horses are lovely—I’m sure they’re getting the best possible care. And if not, they will be once I’ve spoken to the stable boys.”
At Raf’s request, she rose, taking the goblet from his hand. “Of course!” Anything to help, anything to make up for the bitter guilt, to replace the smile on her brother’s face. A quick walk across the room saw his goblet filled, and another, smaller goblet for herself. She handed his carefully back to him and sipped at hers, trying not to make a face. Sofia could tell it was high quality, indeed, but her taste for wine was far from fully acquired.
“I heard some of the ‘latest’ gossip from the townsfolk,” she smiled, giggling a little to herself. Taking snippets of conversation and weaving them into dramatic life stories was one of her favorite hobbies. “Mikolaos, the butcher’s son, was seen attempting to pick a bouquet for one of the tailor’s daughters. He was not so good with a small knife as he might appear in the shop.” Sofia laughed some more, picturing the wilted, cropped bunch of flowers.
But Raf didn’t care much for the poors, and Sofia knew it. She’d have to come up with something better. “Oh! I got you this.” She reached into the bag at her feet and pulled out a little gold pin, holding it out to her brother. It was a little tree enclosed in a circle, with delicate leaves carved into it and a single bird (perhaps an owl) perched in the branches. The craftsmanship was superb; when she’d seen it, she knew she had to get it for Raf. Sofia had wanted to save it for some special conversation, but now seemed as good a time as any. “I got a stretch of fabric and some jewelry for myself, too, but this was by far the best thing!” She smiled hopefully at him and took another sip of wine, nose crinkling the tiniest bit.
“Thank you,” Rafail answered, his tone noticeably earnest. Sofia was a good sister, even if he did not quite have any alternatives with which to compare her. There were not many who would likely go out of their way to find a specific harpist solely so their brother could learn a piece, though he supposed her eagerness to do so could well have been related to his current state. Either way, he did not mind, so long as he eventually learned the piece in question. It might make Sofia happy to hear it recreated, even if she had never been so musically inclined herself.
The comments on his chariot – new chariot, alas – and the care of his beloved horses were appreciated, even if Rafail could not muster much more of a smile than an awkward, sad kind of simper, the dull throbbing ache of his injured limb almost preventing him from contorting his facial muscles much further. Was this level of pain reasonable? Surely, the lift of the corners of his mouth should not have resulted in a burst of discomfort from his leg, eliciting a pained wince as he glanced between the now-concealed gash and the physician. If he continued causing him such suffering, then rest assured that Sofia would be leaving the room with a new instruction to let Papa know that the physician was awful at what he did and only caused him more soreness than he did comfort.
Wine. Lovely, perfect, sweet wine. The blonde lord quickly downed half the drink, hoping it might somehow dull the unpleasantness of his current feelings, and unable to mask an amused little chuckle at the way his sister still did not seem to have grown accustomed to wine. Her tastes would change someday, Rafail was confident, but she was still young enough that, likely, it would not matter for a while. “You’ll get there,” he assured her, taking a reasonably more moderated sip of his wine. It was delicious, even if she could not note it. “Perhaps I’ll take you to Messaly someday – just the pair of us – and I shall treat you to some of the best wines we have. This one is certainly excellent, but I am certain we have better.” And, so far as he was concerned, it was much better for the girl to start her oenological education with drinks of the highest quality. A Marikas should never have to settle for anything less than the absolute finest.
Any conversation was appreciated, no matter how little Rafail might have cared about the lives of the peasantry. He had never heard of the butcher’s son, and mildly questioned why Sofia seemed to know the name of the boy well enough that she could now tell this tale, although he did not voice the concern. Everyone had to make a few mistakes in their lifetime, and that would simply have to be one of hers. “Women appreciate the sentiment,” he commented regardless, feeling somewhat generous given the current situation. “So, I suppose she might find it somewhat endearing.” Especially when there were not many other alternatives (that was generally the case with the poor). Not everybody could seduce a woman by wowing them with tales of their wealth and social status.
Rafail would never turn down a gift, and gladly reached for the pin. “It’s lovely,” he agreed, reaching up to clip it onto his chiton, even though he was unlikely to save the outfit much longer, given the way Lesley had torn it when he was attempting to save the lord. “You’ll show me what you bought yourself, yes? I’d love to see it.” It would not have been the first time one of them had shown off their recent purchases as such.
“I think such things shall have to wait, my Lord,” interrupted the doctor, speaking for the first time in a while as he (finally) stepped aside from his patient, turning towards the only woman in the room. “Lord Rafail needs some rest.” He stepped closer to the door, waiting beside it for Sofia. “A few days of bed rest, I think, but I will need to speak with your father.”
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“Thank you,” Rafail answered, his tone noticeably earnest. Sofia was a good sister, even if he did not quite have any alternatives with which to compare her. There were not many who would likely go out of their way to find a specific harpist solely so their brother could learn a piece, though he supposed her eagerness to do so could well have been related to his current state. Either way, he did not mind, so long as he eventually learned the piece in question. It might make Sofia happy to hear it recreated, even if she had never been so musically inclined herself.
The comments on his chariot – new chariot, alas – and the care of his beloved horses were appreciated, even if Rafail could not muster much more of a smile than an awkward, sad kind of simper, the dull throbbing ache of his injured limb almost preventing him from contorting his facial muscles much further. Was this level of pain reasonable? Surely, the lift of the corners of his mouth should not have resulted in a burst of discomfort from his leg, eliciting a pained wince as he glanced between the now-concealed gash and the physician. If he continued causing him such suffering, then rest assured that Sofia would be leaving the room with a new instruction to let Papa know that the physician was awful at what he did and only caused him more soreness than he did comfort.
Wine. Lovely, perfect, sweet wine. The blonde lord quickly downed half the drink, hoping it might somehow dull the unpleasantness of his current feelings, and unable to mask an amused little chuckle at the way his sister still did not seem to have grown accustomed to wine. Her tastes would change someday, Rafail was confident, but she was still young enough that, likely, it would not matter for a while. “You’ll get there,” he assured her, taking a reasonably more moderated sip of his wine. It was delicious, even if she could not note it. “Perhaps I’ll take you to Messaly someday – just the pair of us – and I shall treat you to some of the best wines we have. This one is certainly excellent, but I am certain we have better.” And, so far as he was concerned, it was much better for the girl to start her oenological education with drinks of the highest quality. A Marikas should never have to settle for anything less than the absolute finest.
Any conversation was appreciated, no matter how little Rafail might have cared about the lives of the peasantry. He had never heard of the butcher’s son, and mildly questioned why Sofia seemed to know the name of the boy well enough that she could now tell this tale, although he did not voice the concern. Everyone had to make a few mistakes in their lifetime, and that would simply have to be one of hers. “Women appreciate the sentiment,” he commented regardless, feeling somewhat generous given the current situation. “So, I suppose she might find it somewhat endearing.” Especially when there were not many other alternatives (that was generally the case with the poor). Not everybody could seduce a woman by wowing them with tales of their wealth and social status.
Rafail would never turn down a gift, and gladly reached for the pin. “It’s lovely,” he agreed, reaching up to clip it onto his chiton, even though he was unlikely to save the outfit much longer, given the way Lesley had torn it when he was attempting to save the lord. “You’ll show me what you bought yourself, yes? I’d love to see it.” It would not have been the first time one of them had shown off their recent purchases as such.
“I think such things shall have to wait, my Lord,” interrupted the doctor, speaking for the first time in a while as he (finally) stepped aside from his patient, turning towards the only woman in the room. “Lord Rafail needs some rest.” He stepped closer to the door, waiting beside it for Sofia. “A few days of bed rest, I think, but I will need to speak with your father.”
“Thank you,” Rafail answered, his tone noticeably earnest. Sofia was a good sister, even if he did not quite have any alternatives with which to compare her. There were not many who would likely go out of their way to find a specific harpist solely so their brother could learn a piece, though he supposed her eagerness to do so could well have been related to his current state. Either way, he did not mind, so long as he eventually learned the piece in question. It might make Sofia happy to hear it recreated, even if she had never been so musically inclined herself.
The comments on his chariot – new chariot, alas – and the care of his beloved horses were appreciated, even if Rafail could not muster much more of a smile than an awkward, sad kind of simper, the dull throbbing ache of his injured limb almost preventing him from contorting his facial muscles much further. Was this level of pain reasonable? Surely, the lift of the corners of his mouth should not have resulted in a burst of discomfort from his leg, eliciting a pained wince as he glanced between the now-concealed gash and the physician. If he continued causing him such suffering, then rest assured that Sofia would be leaving the room with a new instruction to let Papa know that the physician was awful at what he did and only caused him more soreness than he did comfort.
Wine. Lovely, perfect, sweet wine. The blonde lord quickly downed half the drink, hoping it might somehow dull the unpleasantness of his current feelings, and unable to mask an amused little chuckle at the way his sister still did not seem to have grown accustomed to wine. Her tastes would change someday, Rafail was confident, but she was still young enough that, likely, it would not matter for a while. “You’ll get there,” he assured her, taking a reasonably more moderated sip of his wine. It was delicious, even if she could not note it. “Perhaps I’ll take you to Messaly someday – just the pair of us – and I shall treat you to some of the best wines we have. This one is certainly excellent, but I am certain we have better.” And, so far as he was concerned, it was much better for the girl to start her oenological education with drinks of the highest quality. A Marikas should never have to settle for anything less than the absolute finest.
Any conversation was appreciated, no matter how little Rafail might have cared about the lives of the peasantry. He had never heard of the butcher’s son, and mildly questioned why Sofia seemed to know the name of the boy well enough that she could now tell this tale, although he did not voice the concern. Everyone had to make a few mistakes in their lifetime, and that would simply have to be one of hers. “Women appreciate the sentiment,” he commented regardless, feeling somewhat generous given the current situation. “So, I suppose she might find it somewhat endearing.” Especially when there were not many other alternatives (that was generally the case with the poor). Not everybody could seduce a woman by wowing them with tales of their wealth and social status.
Rafail would never turn down a gift, and gladly reached for the pin. “It’s lovely,” he agreed, reaching up to clip it onto his chiton, even though he was unlikely to save the outfit much longer, given the way Lesley had torn it when he was attempting to save the lord. “You’ll show me what you bought yourself, yes? I’d love to see it.” It would not have been the first time one of them had shown off their recent purchases as such.
“I think such things shall have to wait, my Lord,” interrupted the doctor, speaking for the first time in a while as he (finally) stepped aside from his patient, turning towards the only woman in the room. “Lord Rafail needs some rest.” He stepped closer to the door, waiting beside it for Sofia. “A few days of bed rest, I think, but I will need to speak with your father.”