Amalia
"I don't." Maybe not the most diplomatic answer, but Amalia is still a little dazed, rather expecting this whole thing to have been an elaborate ruse. The birds, however, report no such thing: indeed, they say the day is quiet, and they are pleased, because it means more stale bread.
You're pardoned.
Everything else slips out of consciousness, left behind by those two words. You're pardoned. You're pardoned. You're pardoned. Over and over she silently repeats them, as though repetition might make them feel true. "Oh. Okay."
And then, because she desperately wants Edy to leave before she breaks down into relieved tears, Amalia presses a whole wheat loaf and a coffee cake and some scones at the girl. "Here. A coronation gift. I will make sure your message reaches our friend."
You're pardoned.
Everything else slips out of consciousness, left behind by those two words. You're pardoned. You're pardoned. You're pardoned. Over and over she silently repeats them, as though repetition might make them feel true. "Oh. Okay."
And then, because she desperately wants Edy to leave before she breaks down into relieved tears, Amalia presses a whole wheat loaf and a coffee cake and some scones at the girl. "Here. A coronation gift. I will make sure your message reaches our friend."
