"It is just a busted nose," she said to Cherny with exaggerated disdain as they sat in the anteroom of the Rememdium. It was well past sunsleep, and yet, accidents happened even outside of the sun's watch.
But a broken nose was not an emergency. It was not a father's finger accidentally severed by the learning axe of his young son as the two chopped evening wood. It was not a half-charred face obtained from a bit of experimental magic, as evidenced by the red, leathery cheek-skin of the young woman sitting four seats away. The white-gowned wellsmith had told the seamstress and her young companion "It will be some time," so together, they sat and watched the harvest of farming accidents and clumsy decisions.
With a twist of bloodied cotton still hanging from her left nostril, the seamstress leaned to Cherny. "What do you think happened?" she asked as she discreetly nudged a finger in the direction of the burnt lady. Occasionally, she dragged her sweater-sleeve underneath her nose, smearing flakes of brown, dried blood along the sweat-stained cuff, having such little regard for her own clothes that they were nothing more than dabbing-cloths and washrags.
Cherny's vinegar compress had done just fine, she wanted to tell him; she did not need a wellsmith to look at a broken nose, no matter how grievous the new bulge to the bridge or the angle at which it bent.
"While we wait," she said, interrupting a quietly-hummed song, "maybe we shall talk of -- of a thing."
The next words she spoke more softly, as if to preserve his pride.
A secret shared between brother and sister. A pact long before declared on the threads of a borrowed apron: I will keep you safe.
"The Black Man. I heard he came to you. I heard he scared you."