[ A sober Isaac, a Leander barely holding on to the world, and an mildly irritated Alexandrie. No need for disguise, no need for clean clothing, and surely Isaac didn't think she'd tidy the space. Why did he feel the need to call her of all people.
It's only belatedly that she realizes that in this instance she counts as a healer. A rudimentary one, yes, but with enough experience forced down her throat by Ghislain to take stock of injury, tie a smart bandage, judge what will heal well enough alone and what needs to be encouraged with fine even stitching well-practiced elsewhere (the only difference between petticoat and man is that the latter flinches and dyes the thread when you put flowers onto it with a needle,) and one who is notably sympathetic to mages and has ties (had. has.) that would discourage her from saying 'blood magic'. ]
I surmise you have had fine reason to become a hermit forced upon you, but if you wish such reason to remain quiet, you may borrow my room in the apartments when you are well enough to make it to Hightown. It is largely a studio now, after all. [ Her mouth curves in a thin wry smile. ] You may take an artistic retreat. Your interests in that arena are not unknown to my staff, and those circumstances render it perfectly acceptable to shut yourself up with canvas and paint and have your meals left outside the door.
[ When shutting oneself up in a room for long periods of time and refusing to take visitors the lower class are suspicious, the nobility are eccentric, and artists patronized by nobility are inspired. ]
Since it appears you need not a change of clothing and you refuse to be beautified, I am for the infirmary. Having the near entirety of those I have come to care for unceremoniously ripped from me has apparently made me most desirous of having always with me the ability to preserve life with my own hands.
[ For all the content, the delivery is bloodless. A field of lavender flattened by an unprecedented storm, stems snapped, dry in the sun. She turns to leave, pausing with her hand on the door only long enough to ask and receive answer. ]
no subject
It's only belatedly that she realizes that in this instance she counts as a healer. A rudimentary one, yes, but with enough experience forced down her throat by Ghislain to take stock of injury, tie a smart bandage, judge what will heal well enough alone and what needs to be encouraged with fine even stitching well-practiced elsewhere (the only difference between petticoat and man is that the latter flinches and dyes the thread when you put flowers onto it with a needle,) and one who is notably sympathetic to mages and has ties (had. has.) that would discourage her from saying 'blood magic'. ]
I surmise you have had fine reason to become a hermit forced upon you, but if you wish such reason to remain quiet, you may borrow my room in the apartments when you are well enough to make it to Hightown. It is largely a studio now, after all. [ Her mouth curves in a thin wry smile. ] You may take an artistic retreat. Your interests in that arena are not unknown to my staff, and those circumstances render it perfectly acceptable to shut yourself up with canvas and paint and have your meals left outside the door.
[ When shutting oneself up in a room for long periods of time and refusing to take visitors the lower class are suspicious, the nobility are eccentric, and artists patronized by nobility are inspired. ]
Since it appears you need not a change of clothing and you refuse to be beautified, I am for the infirmary. Having the near entirety of those I have come to care for unceremoniously ripped from me has apparently made me most desirous of having always with me the ability to preserve life with my own hands.
[ For all the content, the delivery is bloodless. A field of lavender flattened by an unprecedented storm, stems snapped, dry in the sun. She turns to leave, pausing with her hand on the door only long enough to ask and receive answer. ]
Which is your convenient room?