She knew, of course, who he was.

Though magical folk put little store, as a rule, in the nobility, few in the congregation were unaware of the Baron Crossridge's presence in Irvingly (or at least, just outside of it). Still, Blythe had never had—nor anticipated having—occasion to actually speak to the man. He moved without speaking to pick up the felled statue, and all the colour newly risen to Blythe's face drained entirely when she saw she had given the Mother herself an impromptu rhinectomy.

Perhaps if she prayed hard enough, the ground would open up and swallow her.