Callista winced – both in sympathy and in guilt. “I feel I ought to be the one begging your pardon, in fact,” she confessed, never mind his coarse complaints; by the way he was – barely – moving, she thought it was best he held still for some time longer.

“You overheard my mandrake potting,” she added, rather grateful that no one else was overhearing her now, “so I fear your head will be aching for some time yet.”

---