Wellsmith. That was what they called them in Jernoah, in the lands surrounding it. Artists of the skin, the blood, and the bone, who knew how to forge greater health from even the most grievous maladies. They were not workers of magics or ritual, but of bandages and salves, who studied bodies like well-read books and saw humours like the pieces of a broken story.
As the seamstress stood before the Rememdium Edificium -- a place whose name she could not pronounce except with the most liberal application of mistakes -- she realized she had not set foot in it since Cherny had set foot out of it. And yet, this time, her presence was wholly voluntary.
A hospital was not a pleasant place. Its insides were saturated by years of pain and death. The heady stink of blood and the caustic odor of feces were both etched into the wood like engravings. Skin was only ever the barrier to the horrible truth inside a body, the way it stank, the way it looked. Greasy, half-cooked, rancid-smelling meat, packed tight inside sinews and around bones.
And yet, beautiful things happened here. Good deeds. Miracles.
The seamstress, with her timid gait, her dirty dress, and her fists wrapped like knuckled stones around the canvas shoulder-strap of her satchel, stood just within the door. Some of the attendants rushed between the rooms and the tented beds. She watched it all with horror and curiosity. She considered even turning around, going back out into the winter cold, and returning to the basting stitches she had been practicing, practicing, practicing on her newest sampler.
But instead, she reached out on a whim, grabbed the sleeve of a younger woman who did not seem like she was in so much of a rush, and said, "Excuse my interruption, but, Menna Janessa -- the wellsmith -- is she here?"
"I might be able to find her," said the attendant. "If she is not with someone."
"I will wait," said the seamstress. "I can wait right here, if I must."
"And do you need care?"
"Do I -- no. No, I need only to speak to her."
"You may speak to me," the attendant said.
She raised up on the tips of her toes, skirts swaying, trying to peer around the attendant's shoulders. "I would be more comfortable speaking to Menna Janessa, if you please," said the seamstress. "I will wait. I will gladly wait."
"I should know your name to pass along, to see if she cares to have business with you at all."
The seamstress smiled, thinking about the seventy-four running stitches nagging at the back of her mind. "Gloria Wynsee," she said. "I am an acquaintance. I can return if I must."
"I will see if I can retrieve her."
And with a hard turn upon her heel, the attendant was off. While she awaited, the seamstress turned her tired eyes down to her hands, one gloved, the other bare and cracked by the cold like dry earth. Plump fingers. Filthy fingers. Fingers made for seamwork.