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“Where did you come from?”

“Carthane.”

“They let you leave?”

An odd question. They hadn’tlether leave—but neither had they kept her prisoner, which seemed to be what the doctor was implying. Fern opened her mouth, trying to scramble together an explanation that would not sound nonsensical.

“I fell into the sea.”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Is that how you hurt your leg?”

She motioned, and Fern followed the gesture towards a large tear in her trousers, revealing a deep gash blossoming out over a bed of bruising.

“I hit a rock in the sea.”

“Hm.” Dr Moad made a note, then rolled her stool closer to Fern. “I’m going to conduct a quick check on you. Is that alright?”

Fern nodded. The woman checked her pulse, her temperature, her pupils, making notes as she went. Then a knock came at the door, and Addie returned, carrying a pile of clothing in a basket, which she laid on the examining couch next to Fern.

“Thank you, Addie,” said the doctor. “Will you brew some white willow bark tea? And maybe put on some slices of toast? She looks like she hasn’t eaten in days.”

Fern tried to point out that she’d been making an effort to eat, but her voice failed to come out. Addie nodded and left through a different door.

Dr Moad gestured towards the clothes and said to Fern, “You need to get out of your wet clothes, and I need to dress your wound. Can you undress?”

Fern heaved herself up, testing her strength. Her arm was stiff with pain, and her entire body felt weak, as though her muscles had been forcefully removed and her flesh left hollow as pitted fruit.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“Alright.”

With gentle movements, the doctor helped her out of clothes, setting the sodden garments aside with a grimace. If she noticed the bruising on Fern’s arm, she said nothing.

She helped Fern into the clothing the old woman had brought: a thick shirt in a coarse material and a large jumper knit from deep blue yarn. It made Fern think of Lautric, and her chest ached.

Before she could slide on the loose trousers, Dr Moad cleaned and dressed her leg wound. The gash was deep, the bruise surrounding it was mottled purple and blue.

Fern lay back while the doctor quickly stitched the wound shut, and the pain was a drop in an ocean, and that ocean felt very far away from Fern.

Once her leg was bandaged and she was fully dressed, the doctor kindly towelled Fern’s hair dry before handing her the last of the clothing the old woman had brought: a woollen hat. Now that she was no longer mummified in sopping wet clothes, Fern felt much better, the cold slowly melting out of her body.

In its stead, the pain rammed itself back in, making Fern flinch with exhaustion.

Addie came back into the room carrying a tray. On it was a teapot, a cup, a butter tray and a plate piled with brown slices of toast. She laid the tray next to Fern and poured a cup of tea. She heaped a spoon with thick honey and stirred, fragrant steam rising from the cup.

“Drink this first,” she said, handing Fern the cup. “It’s for the fever. Then you should eat.”

“Thank you,” Fern croaked, taking the cup.

The doctor perched on her stool, propping her arms on her legs and linking her fingers.

“You have a fever, but your vitals are, surprisingly, fine. You’re a hardier woman than you look. Treat your fever, get plenty of rest, keep your wound clean and disinfected and you should be fine.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Fern took a sip from her cup, wincing at the combined bitterness of the tea and sickly sweetness of the honey. It was too hot to drink, and Fern had wasted too much time already. She laid the cup down and propped herself up on the examination couch with a wince.

“You should rest,” the doctor pointed out, though she made no move to stop Fern.