[b][color=7ea7d8]Grace Sparling[/color][/b]

Anton's promise of a peach scone, and his pet name of 'little bird', was enough to put a slight smile on Grace's timid face. She could usually count on the Sinclair mansion's talented chef to provide her with an extra bit of food here and there. And his work never failed to impress. Of all the servants working at the manor, she was most comfortable with Anton, and second-most with Kest. They were, most of the time, the most relaxed and easy to be around. 

In response to her news about the garden, and its sorry state thanks to the rain, Kest suggested that they could head out that night to work on it. Even if the rain did let up, the yard would be soaked and muddy. Their clothes would get filthy, and a load of laundry would be added to the work list. But after even one night stuck inside, Grace was yearning to be out in the gardens she took so much pride in. The thought was appealing, to say the least. She had just opened her mouth to say so, when the two were interrupted. 

The door opened, revealing one of their new guests. [b]"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm afraid this house is so big and beautiful, I'm not quite sure where any door will lead."[/b]

Grace's automatic reaction was to close her mouth and shrink slowly out of sight, half-tucking herself behind one of the tall-backed chairs they had just pushed in. The woman's focus would likely be on Kest as he took control of the situation, letting her know that breakfast was on the way, asking if there was anything he could do. While Kest went into butler-mode, Grace went into wallflower mode. Silently, her pale blue eyes looked the woman over. Yes, she was fairly sure she had seen her arrive last night. The tall woman with the cut on her leg. It wasn't an infrequent occurrence that the guests who showed up at the Sinclair home were injured. Refugees from storms, travellers caught in accidents. Grace herself was an example. Though she barely remembered the train derailment that had brought her here, her chest and arm still bore the shrapnel scars. Only the very edge of the scar peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her dress. Thankfully, this woman's injury had been limited to a single gash across her thigh. 

In an uncharacteristically social act (rarely did Grace engage guests in conversation until they had been there a few days), Grace spoke up. [color=7ea7d8]"Is your leg all right?"[/color] she asked Suzy, the question genuine and sincere.