Aryn held her hand up “This tall, blond hair, age eleven and her name is Roryn.” Aryn rattled off. Her attention shifted to a dark corner momentarily and she scowled “she may be hiding out here. Especially since that little pain in my butt has been ignoring me.” She pointed at the pale brown flit who gave a squeak before pressing further into the shadows.
Cremsden called back over his shoulder to the nearest apprentice. "Sionel. Any eleven turn old girls in today?"
The boy stood still to consider. "No girls. Had a little boy in earlier who jammed his finger in the door," he offered. "And a baby who fell out his highchair."
"I think the lady was looking for a specific girl, not the closest possible replacement," Cremsden said mildly. "Right. Well, it sounds unlikely she's injured so there's one worry put to bed. We're looking for a runaway then?"
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.