Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor
She absolutely refused to cry in front of Charlie Ewing, Chrysanthe told herself, and quite firmly. She was not in the least given to crying; she preferred to save it for truly awful situations, not irritating mechanics with an oddly cruel streak to their humor, no matter how late at night she was forced to deal with them. She took a deep breath, studying her hands; her nails were ragged and rather awful, but that, at least, was nothing new; it had been a struggle to keep them neat ever since she started at the glass factory. She tried to touch them up herself before she saw Amaryllis, at least; somehow the fact that her nails were generally messy was something she wished, badly, to keep from her sister.
Along with some of the rest. There was nothing Amaryllis could do; Chrysanthe saw no sense in worrying her sister with the behavior of Howie Pargeter.
The pain had gone, a bit; her hand ached, rather, but Chrysanthe found it manageable, and she had at least curbed her desire to cry. She could at least be thankful it had been as fleeting as it had been intense.
Chrysanthe found she had precisely nothing to say in response to Ewing’s little comment. She did not bother to look at him, though nor did she pick the wrench back up just yet. Her hand still ached, and it seemed to hurt worse at the prospect of continuing. She was, still, crouched uncomfortably on the ground, but neither did she think she could bear lowering herself back down if she rose, so she simply held there.
She held no particular ill-will towards Mr. Grangerton; neither did she much care to defend him against what she supposed was an insult. Nor, frankly, could she bother to be insulted by his sarcastic compliment regarding her personality. That he did not like her was clear – had been, from the first few moments of their interaction, for whatever reasons of his own. Likely, Chrysanthe thought, sourly, because he was a malignant little toad, overenamored of his own eyelashes.
Thus bolstered, Chrysanthe picked the wrench back up, and set back to it, aching hands and all. She felt as if – perhaps the last half hour for the first time all night – as if they were coming around the bend. The floor, finally, seemed to be getting less messy rather than more; they were putting things together, rather than taking them apart. A bit longer, Chrysanthe told herself, and she could bid this wretched night farewell. She did not glance at the windows to see whether the sky was beginning to lighten – whether the choice might be taken from her – but rather chose, instead, to hold out hope, just a little longer.