It wasn't okay. It wasn't, she could see it, the way he didn't quite meet her gaze, and he had tensed up again... It was dawning on Qebhet too late that the joke Much had made about his lost six months hadn't been the sort that came with time and distance. It was the sort you made to mask the pain of it.
The question wasn't even an important one, and she wanted to tell him that. She wanted to wind back the minutes to when she'd been telling him about her home, and she'd seen his expression soften – relax, perhaps, just a little – and he'd reached for her hand. She wanted to ask him other questions, about his own country, about his life in the woods where he'd find his way home by the stars, questions that might return a glimmer of light to his eyes, perhaps even draw a smile.
But Much had prompted her to go on, and if she didn't her silly inconsequential question would hang between them all the same. "Um," she bit her lip. "I was just, I was wondering... is it the stories, because they keep telling new ones? I've seen... with some of my family, but..." she trailed before she could apologise a second time.