The blood is all Guenievre's, though in the chaos and confusion - Gwenaëlle has to stop to register the question, to think about it, to make sure she knows the answer is true. It isn't as if she doesn't know how easy it is to miss something you oughtn't; how many times her father has sat down declaring himself perfectly well. Well; there was alcohol, then, but she doesn't feel as if she's thinking so much more clearly than he is.

When she shakes her head, mute, she's sure. Of that, anyway, because not another fucking thing that's happened in the last not-nearly-so-long-as-it-feels makes any damned sense -

She does feel a bit as if she might be sick at that unidentified sound.

"I promised," she repeats less harshly, distracted, shocky.