With Moss’s proclamation, a great grin brightens Saoirse’s face that quickly evaporates as she grimaces and chokes on the concoction.

“No, no!” the matron declares and hurries over to grab the pot from Saoise’s hands, but the old woman has a firm grip on the side and won’t release it. Maide crosses her hands. “Ale and lichen! Bedevilment! This will provoke her passing. You are not a nurse, why… you’re nothing but an herbwife”

Saoirse is already feeling a bit better. The old woman has been miming the nurse-matron as she speaks to Moss, causing Braca to set free a giggle, which she immediately cover when Maide turns and glares at her.

Moss’s eyes have grown dark, however, at Maide’s accusation, but the nurse matron is oblivious. “I’ve practiced healing down in the Empire, using modern techniques of alchemy and prayer. The time of your backwoods remedies is passed! You cannot remove this woman to certain painful death. This is where she belongs.”

Saoirse straightens her back—the pain has indeed already lessened. She coughs, surprised at the amount of phlegm the concoction has brought up this quickly, and her voice gurgles with it as she says, “Aye, modern techniques like eatin’ her god’s flesh an’ drinkin’ ‘is blood.”

Saoirse spits a fine hocker into the chamberpot. “An’ she tries t’make we do it too. Says it’ll make we live ‘ever. ‘cept nobody e’er does nothin’ but die here.” Saoirse reaches an arm to Moss to help her stand, and says to Braca, "Me travelin' clothes, do ye mind?" The young nurse hurries off.

Now Moss is ready to respond.