Humans were so casual with their hands. Living among them, Ariadne had at least gotten to the point of accepting that particular failing. But it still always raised the hairs on the back of her neck when one just reached out and touched her palm. No harm was meant, of course. And she didn't recoil. But she could only imagine how her mother would react to something like that.

Thank the gods, Ariadne was not her mother.

Accepting the handkerchief, she quickly curled it around her finger. She'd have to find this nice lady a replacement. Not that she knew where to get a handkerchief.

"I...I don't know, my lady," she admitted. She watched the way her blood stained the fabric. Funny. She didn't think she'd done more than prick herself. But her blood was painting red flowers on the white linen. "I just...did."