For a moment—long but also short—Blythe worried she might faint. The feel of the constable's hand in her own, flesh upon flesh, made her utterly lightheaded and at once drawn to him like man to the Devine. It was an intimacy she had not prepared herself for, and Blythe found herself wondering if this was what the marital act felt like.

All too swiftly, the contact ended, the witch found herself pining for his touch once again.

"I—th-that is," Blythe stammered in starts and stops, "it doesn't look right," she offered apologetically, "but I shouldn't think it-it would need a healer's touch."

— Benjamin Woodcroft/Cassius Lestrange —

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   Benjamin Woodcroft

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Miss Fairchild seemed all aflutter, and Benji couldn't place it, but at least it sounded as if his ear was fine. And other than the (fading, slowly) ringing, he was starting to feel fine, and though he felt like he'd been punched in the chest where the stunning spell had hit him - well. That was fine.

"And are you hanging in all right?" he asked. "I know this has all been - well, a little more chaotic than we'd like."

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"It has been rather...rather more than I had anticipated," Blythe allowed shyly, letting out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She certainly could not tell her aunt about this—Aunt Temperance would have her out of the constabulary and into the infirmary with blood and fluids and all that went with it in a heartbeat!

— Benjamin Woodcroft/Cassius Lestrange —

  

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Benji smiled sheepishly at Miss Fairchild. "Well," he said, "I hope you trust that I won't let it happen again." Well. Probably. Benji was not the best at his job, or at least not the best at the violence that occasionally went alongside it — but he would try to keep the secretary out of things.

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If Blythe were to be critical, she might have mentioned that she had not believed he ever would, but now such faith was understandably shaken. Blythe Fairchild, though, could never have said anything so bold even without the rose-coloured glasses that had turned Constable Woodcroft into some sort of hero figure on par with Hercules himself (not Jesus, though).

"Oh Constable," she rushed to reassure him, instinctively, lightly, putting her fingertips upon his forearm before hastily removing them, "you have nothing but my utmost confidence!"

After all, she had stunned him. If anyone was a disaster, it was her!

— Benjamin Woodcroft/Cassius Lestrange —

  

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