She spoke as if to herself, her eyes filled with boundless hope for the future, as if Eleanor's achievements were her greatest glory and comfort.
Watching her, Murphy slowly loosened the fingers tangled in her hair before finally pulling his hand away completely.
His gaze fell upon his empty palm, then shifted to the Witch kneeling at his feet, her face suffused with a strange radiance. He remained silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry..."
Those two words were faint, almost carried away by the night wind.
But Margaret heard them.
She abruptly lowered her head, pressing her forehead against Murphy's stomach once more. The deep violet hem of her dress spread a wider shadow across the stone slabs.
"You don't have to..." Her voice came out muffled and indistinct. "Master doesn't have to say he's sorry. Never."
