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Greta hasn't said anything to Saoirse about the misunderstanding at the hospital -- the one neither of them had bothered to correct. She'd explained it all to Baz, with no small amount of embarrassment. In that case, she hadn't had much choice. The bill would have arrived, and the paperwork would have ratted her out, and then he and Simon would have wondered why she hadn't told them.
Fortunately, they hadn't seemed to mind. She wonders if being perceived as a bit of a bumpkin (who of course wouldn't understand how hospitals work) has been to her advantage. At any rate, she's not about to argue that she knew exactly what she was doing. Better to shoulder the embarrassment of an honest mistake than delve into how dishonest the whole thing truly was.
Saoirse's kept the cast. Greta's stomach twists every time she catches a glimpse of the pink plaster, both a reminder of the day, and an unnecessary hindrance. She could have been healed in a moment; this could have been so much simpler. But there was an agreement: her coach and teammates and half of her teammates' parents had all seen the injury, and it would have been too conspicuous for her to show up to the next practice looking as if nothing had happened. There might even have been grumbles about unfair advantages.
Greta would have argued that speedy healing is perfectly fair when all the other children are twice Saoirse's size and knocking her into the dirt every other minute, but she can see the wisdom of keeping any magical influences well-hidden. She doesn't like it -- and the Greta of eight months ago would have gawped at the thought of not liking a bit of magical restraint -- but she understands it.
It's nearing the end of her shift, and she's putting the last few dishes away, making sure everything is in order. There's a spare lemon tart wrapped in a handkerchief and waiting by the door, so she won't forget it. (Despite Mad Sweeney's reassurances, she can no longer convince herself that a mouthful of bread -- even her bread -- is a sufficient offering for someone so bloody enormous.) And then there's a knock on the door, one she easily recognizes as Saoirse's. Though she knows the sight of the cast will give her a pang, Greta finds herself smiling fondly as she goes to open the door.
"Hello, sweetheart." She almost adds that Saoirse doesn't need to knock, that she can come visit whenever she likes, but then she remembers that with only one hand at her disposal, doors must be harder to handle. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something before I go."
Fortunately, they hadn't seemed to mind. She wonders if being perceived as a bit of a bumpkin (who of course wouldn't understand how hospitals work) has been to her advantage. At any rate, she's not about to argue that she knew exactly what she was doing. Better to shoulder the embarrassment of an honest mistake than delve into how dishonest the whole thing truly was.
Saoirse's kept the cast. Greta's stomach twists every time she catches a glimpse of the pink plaster, both a reminder of the day, and an unnecessary hindrance. She could have been healed in a moment; this could have been so much simpler. But there was an agreement: her coach and teammates and half of her teammates' parents had all seen the injury, and it would have been too conspicuous for her to show up to the next practice looking as if nothing had happened. There might even have been grumbles about unfair advantages.
Greta would have argued that speedy healing is perfectly fair when all the other children are twice Saoirse's size and knocking her into the dirt every other minute, but she can see the wisdom of keeping any magical influences well-hidden. She doesn't like it -- and the Greta of eight months ago would have gawped at the thought of not liking a bit of magical restraint -- but she understands it.
It's nearing the end of her shift, and she's putting the last few dishes away, making sure everything is in order. There's a spare lemon tart wrapped in a handkerchief and waiting by the door, so she won't forget it. (Despite Mad Sweeney's reassurances, she can no longer convince herself that a mouthful of bread -- even her bread -- is a sufficient offering for someone so bloody enormous.) And then there's a knock on the door, one she easily recognizes as Saoirse's. Though she knows the sight of the cast will give her a pang, Greta finds herself smiling fondly as she goes to open the door.
"Hello, sweetheart." She almost adds that Saoirse doesn't need to knock, that she can come visit whenever she likes, but then she remembers that with only one hand at her disposal, doors must be harder to handle. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something before I go."
no subject
Date: 2017-08-31 03:38 am (UTC)From:She misses her son with a sudden ferocity. She misses the way he was simply and unquestionably hers.
But she smiles, because it's a sweet gesture, and because she's already worried the poor girl enough. "Thank you," she says, brushing her free hand over Saoirse's hair, then cupping her cheek for a moment. "I think I'll put it up on my fridge."
And this, she thinks, is about all the tenderness she can stand. Any more, and she'll end up carrying Saoirse home with her, too. "All right," she says bracingly, more for her own benefit than Saoirse's. She gently shepherds the girl off of her lap so she can get back to her feet. "Now, are you sure you don't want a snack?" she asks, smiling down at her.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-04 10:27 pm (UTC)From: