At the sight of his blindfold, Herian feels a little prickle of guilt. The jagged flesh of her ear feels horribly conspicuous, but at least she has not suffered anything more severe, more debilitating. He seems to move very ably, though she could curse herself for failing to step forward and offer him assistance in a more timely fashion.

It is not uncommon for Herian to feel chastened, or to reflect more carefully on her conducts. It is, perhaps, a little unusual that such things are brought about in a matter of seconds. (It is nice to be called "cousin," even if she has some awareness of where the assumption might have come from.)

"No apologies are necessary," she starts, and her own tone is conciliatory. "Please forgive me mine own severity. I am," she pauses, weighing her words, "clumsy with my manners, more often than I would wish."