<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The events preceding Cecil's injury had been much of the same old thing. An extravagant party given for no other reason than because it was Thursday, scads of familiar faces, and a generous amount to drink. Had the liquor not come in such abundance, Cecil might not have put his hand through a windowpane - alas. It was not the worst to befall their foursome after a night of revelry, though it stood far and away from being the best.<br/>
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The drunk and injured soul had insisted over and over again that he was perfectly alright, that firm pressure with a tea towel was all he needed, and it was only at the insistence of Constance Hathaway, an on and off again paramour of Cecil's, that he had deigned to seek any medical care at all. Under the influence of more than enough brandy, however, he could barely have managed that on his own. It fell to his loyal group of friends to think of a local apothecary, one who might have kept late hours for such ridiculousness.<br/>
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It was by far not the most ludicrous thing that Wyatt had gotten up to with his lot after the midnight hour had passed. On one particularly long, wine-fueled evening, he and the others had taken to relocating all of Thomas Thatcher's living room furniture to the front lawn, much to the dismay of the housekeepers, to whom the task of moving it all back had fallen. If they could manage that, the fair-haired Wyatt had insisted, they could certainly manage to secure a carriage ride to a damned apothecary to sew the poor fool back together.<br/>
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By the time they arrived at Elias's door, the four were newly drunk on Eric's smuggled bottle of wine, all but stumbling out of the carriage and just managing to catch their bleeding friend before he fell face first into the hedges. Out of their lot, Cecil was the most sloshed, and as Wyatt was the least inebriated, it fell to him to ring the apothecary's bell and explain their situation. The shrill noise made the injured man reach for his ears. <br/>
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"Blast it, that sound is terrible," he muttered, inadvertently pressing his bleeding hand to his head and cursing anew when the gash ached in protest.<br/>
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"Will you stop injuring yourself further?" Wyatt chuckled, peering over his shoulder at the drunkard. "The man might well refuse to stitch your sorry self back together if you don't shape up."<br/>
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Cecil huffed and waved his good hand. "It could well have been any of you," he slurred, to which Thomas soon offered a rebuttal.<br/>
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"None of us have any desire to show Constance our strength by reaching through a sheet of glass. Only you, you damn fool."<br/>
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Wyatt groaned. "Will all of you hush for five seconds? You've already given me a headache on the ride over..."</span>