Rhoda coughed then cringed from the pain. “Dammit.”
“Hold still, Rho-sweet,” Wendel said. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’re going be abed for a couple days, but we’ve got time to find Morgan.” The monk squeezed her arm firmly then released his grip slowly; it was as bad as it looked.
Wendel tucked a few of Rhoda’s lavendar highlights behind the girl’s ears. This close she looked like her older fair-haired sister Morgan. Wendel knew they looked alike, all the Bearforts favored their father’s northern heritage, but she had not realized how much the girl’s dark hair and braids defined her. Nor how much she herself had let that dark hair convince her that Rhoda wasn’t some one she had to care much about because she was just Morgan’s little sister.
, Wendel felt Rhoda’s warm breath on her own lips.
143 words on day 839