"Simon?" There's notes of relief and chagrin alike in the name; of all the people Myr'd do that in front of, naturally it's the one he most wants to impress. He sinks down in the tub, probing the injury with his fingers and wallowing a little longer in embarrassment and warm water. Even if the latter's the instrument of his betrayal, it's damn cold out there. "It's--ow, shit--fine; brained myself and soaked all my fuckin' things but I can fix both--"

From someone else there might be a faint note of accusation behind the words; from Myr, they're simply a rueful statement of the facts. A mumbled diagnostic spell reveals the tub-edge has left him with no more than a spectacular swelling bruise, thank the Maker; if he'd cracked his skull there'd be no easily mending it. He starts in on the healing spell straightway, laboriously cajoling the Fade into putting his blood back where it belonged.

Weary, dazed, and distracted as Myr is, Simon's footsteps don't register. It doesn't occur to him to give warning or ask his friend to stop a moment, please, until he can get the blindfold back on--