Every few days there's a delivery of cooking herbs from the Gallows garden, and though it tends to be performed by this or that runner, periodically Sina brings them herself when it's on the way.
Today is one such day, the basket almost comically large to be held by such a waifish creature, and she fulfills its destiny by losing her grip on it moments before it meets the countertop. Herbs rustle to the floor in a scattered pile, at least for the most part still bundled.
"Teldirthalelin," Sina hisses, crouching to begin picking them up.