Sera Mercy, for your consideration:
It would be both cold-hearted and inconsiderate of me to put to pasture, as farmers say, an innocent young woman. Alas, I still cannot justify her return to the Rememdium Edificium given the unfortunate qualities she possesses. However, I trust with your capable mind and Avinius's teachings that you may be able to discover that very fine point where her recovery lies, likely somewhere between the plains of religion and medicine.
Consider this your freshman task as an attendant here in Myrken Wood. The young woman's name is Sera Noura, and is sometimes referred to as whelp or wildling by herself and others. Her nature is reserved and for the most part polite; she is subject to the regular misgivings of any adolescent girl. But she is inhabited by some other presence which, while it has not yet exhibited itself as such, may be capable of violence I can not in good conscience invite again into the Rememdium.
Make it your task, if it may be done safely, to find a solution for her condition. I am here for any resources you may require. If you find it necessary to employ a firm hand, I have heard of a sellsword in town named Serrus Belcaw who may not be averse to assisting you -- if the price suits him. The infirmary, of course, will take responsibilities of payment upon itself.
Additionally, I shall this afternoon be interviewing another herbalist who I intend, should her talents be useful, to put alongside you in this task. Her name is Rosalyn. I hope she will be suited to work of this nature.
In good health of mind, body, and spirit,
Jule Mitchell
"Is she outside?"
"Yes, ser," said the freckled boy. "I went to the Dagger bright and early to retrieve her, ser. She's waiting in the anteroom for you."
"What are you impressions of her? Is she keen," Jule asked the young messenger. "Or is she daft?"
"I don't take it upon myself to make judgments, ser."
"Very well." Jule counted out several pennies and stacked them in the boy's outstretched palm. An additional one, crisp and shining, was placed on the stack and tapped with a slender finger. "One more task: take this missive with you to the Broken Dagger and deliver it under the door of one Sera Mercy. The bartender can likely direct you to her room."
The boy flashed off with this new job, and Jule Mitchell held the door of his meager office open after him. The morning din of the Rememdium Edificium was one of quietly-shuffling feet and ghostly white hems brushing across the floorboards as, with wooden trays of tinctures herbs, attendants awakened patients to administer their necessities. An iron pot of porridge bubbled over one of the hearths, filling the air with the heady odor of the morning's meal. The aroma of food and spice was entirely welcome: the hospital too often reeked of the copper and iron of blood and the acrid stench of multiple bodies' lesser humors, especially with the sweltering heat of summer baring down upon the building's squat roof.
"Rosalyn," he said out the door of his office. He was a weedy taper of a man, his brown hair a scattered starburst, his beard little more than a series of untrimmed patches on cheeks and chin.
"Sera Rosalyn?"