Maintaining any kind of spell took not only focus and determination, but power. Being a Witch, and a scientist, she had a bit of everything than the average citizen, but she wasn't all-powerful.
About two minutes had passed since her spell had been cast. The bubble had become smaller. Her ankles were exposed, and a shoe flew off somewhere. It wasn't nearly as bad as Benedictus though. Only his torso was on the counter, safely shielded. The rest of his lower body wasn't.
He had regained consciousness, due to what Griselda assumed was his Heroic title. It was a passing thought, as she had to deal with the physical discomfort of crumpling her body on top of Benedictus, while maintaining her spell.
Both of them were sweating. Benedictus felt a sharp pain in one of his legs. He gasped, swallowing his urge to flinch and shout. When he had regained consciousness, Griselda had explained the situation to him. A sudden movement would break her concentration.
"I think it's over," Benedictus mumbled. He had been counting the intervals between lapses of pain. The last one had hit him over 40 seconds ago.
"Really?" Griselda huffed, absolutely damp. The spell unraveled, slipping from her grasp.
Benedictus stood up. His legs were a bit wobbly. He leaned forwards a bit, resting his weight on the counter. Griselda was slumped over. Her hair was a mess, the tight bun a faint memory. Her red hair clung to her face in thin curling chunks.
"Are you alright?" Benedictus asked. His legs were cramping from the rapid healing. He placed his palms on the counter, one hand on each side.
"I'm fine," Griselda said, out of breath. She sat up straight, glancing around at the room. Benedictus did the same, taking in all the changes.
The grey paint was gone, replaced by light oak panels. Where the sink had appeared was a large brick oven. The sink had slid across the room, resting under the windows, which were still just as big and let in just as much light. The cabinets were a dark brown, and the utensils Benedictus had discovered were hung up nicely. There were a few newer one objects too, like a wooden paddle for the brick over.
"Astonishing," Griselda had spoken first. She was slumped over again, her hair hiding her face. From her tone, he could tell she was smiling. "Amazing, astounding, Ser Hero," her shoulders bobbed up and down. She was laughing. "I have been stunned, floored, left wide-eyed and open-mouthed."
"Madame I—"
The Witch threw her head back and laughed. She laughed and laughed, somehow out of breath and never needing to take one. He didn't take offense this time. He understood. Her nerves were absolutely frayed. She had been pushed to near death within a few hours of meeting a stranger.
"Ah ha-ha..." Griselda wiped her, eyes. She was as red as a beet, and out of steam. "Help me down, I've lost a slipper."
She offered her hand, and he placed it gently in his.
"Don't just pull me down," she instructed. "Be more gentlemanly about it, please."
Benedictus was confused by her gentle tone. What happened to the commanding woman from the entry hall? Or the shark-toothed gambler from the garden? He didn't suspect her of anything; quite the opposite. He suspected nothing of her. Nothing at all.
He placed her hand on his shoulder. Unsure if her definition of 'well' matched up with his, Benedictus moved slowly. He grasped her waist and gently pulled her towards him.
She sat on the edge of the table, her gentle breaths tickling his ear. What's the most gentlemanly way to do this, Benedictus thought. He waited a few moments, listening to the sounds of her breathing.
"Which foot?" he asked.
"Hm?" she sounded half asleep.
"Which foot lost its slipper?" he repeated.
"Ah. My left."
He nodded. "Hold on to me," he said.
She complied, wrapping her arms around his neck. With her firmly in place, he placed one hand back on her waist, and the other, under her thigh. He lifted her off the table. He felt Griselda's arms tense for a second. Benedictus slowed down. Gently, he helped her to the ground.
"Thank you," she said, letting go. Her favored foot made a sharp sound as her heel clicked against it.
"No. Thank you. You saved both our lives..."
"Ah," she stopped him. "Don't make promises you can't keep. I'll be sure to—"
"Mother?" a small voice came from the doorway.
A frail-looking boy stood there, hugging a book that was almost as big as he was.
"Hensel," Griselda said.
Benedictus stepped aside. He watched Griselda glide over to the small boy. She hugged him, book and all.
"What are you doing down here honey?" she asked, letting go.
"I-I heard a lot of noise. I had just come home and... I rushed over," he squeezed the book tighter, almost disappearing behind it. "I'm sorry, Mother."
"It's alright. Who brought you home?" she asked.
Griselda was already leading her son out of the Kitchen. Benedictus followed them into the hallway. They walked, him flipping off the lights behind them.
"Sir Cyne and his assistant," the boy mumbled.