"I'm real sorry, ma'm," Saturday says, hunching her shoulders to sell her humble voice. "You're right, I wasn't thinkin', and it was disrespectful - "

"Exactly!" the woman continues, smug triumph in her face. "I've already complained several times about this crop of new hires. You're all far too ungrateful for the opportunity Jorgmundr's given you, when they could have left you to die in the wilds - "

Saturday's fingers twitch, a little. Her smile is melting into something more like a grimace. "Like I said, I'm sorry - "

"Hmph! I've been watching you waste food for the last half an hour, taking bits and throwing it away like we're made of money. And spilling this delicious cider Jorgmundr's provided, when they've tried so hard to make you all feel welcome in this difficult time."

The woman is enjoying this, her face flush with righteous pleasure. Saturday's taken the wrong approach, she realizes. The more she shows throat to this woman, the more she'll keep going, pushing. Bullies are like that, and Saturday recites to herself everything she'd told Guts about why now isn't the time, why giving Jorg an example to make would be counter productive, and it's better to just let them have it for now.

The situation is salvageable. There are worse things to sacrifice than dignity.

The woman will not shut up.

"Now, I want you to go and get that food you've been throwing away - " And then she lays hands on Saturday, pushing her away from the table. Or intending to, except that suddenly her wrist is crushed in Saturday's grip.

"Do not touch me," she says, very clearly. Her eyes are those of a killer.