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Having been distracted by Ferdy's farewell, Thistle did not notice Willi's precarious position, and neither did Ferdy, apparently in some hurry to leave. She allowed that his song had been "fine, fine," with a nod of her head.
She turned back to Willi once Ferdy had left. She wasn't particularly thirsty, but how could she refuse the lad after he had so politely asked? He was right; the cider was quite tasty. So she replied, "Yes, some cider would be right nice... can you reach, or do you need help?"
"I've got it," he assured her, leaning a little bit further so as to reach her nearly empty glass.
The next events happened too quick for Thistle to process immediately. Willi had started to tip the pitcher to pour when it seemed that he had finally leaned across the table too much. The chair on which he was standing slid backwards and Willi fell, dropping the pitcher. The pitcher shattered and sticky cider spilled everywhere, including on Thistle and Willi. Upon first instinct, Thistle grabbed a napkin, which already had some cider on it, off the table and almost began attempting to dry herself. The full comprehension of what had happened dawned on her a moment later and she dropped the napkin, pushing herself up from her seat. She could hear the thump of Willi hitting the ground resounding in her head. Was the lad all right? Had he broken anything, or hit his head?
She hobbled around to the side of the table as fast as her cane and old legs would permit. By the time she reached his side, Ginger had already knelt down beside the lad.
Genuine concern filling her voice, Thistle asked, "Is he all right?"
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