She wasn't lying. It's a long day. But by midnight, Artemis has the color back in her cheeks, and she's breathing easier, and her breaks have been set.

(The former two of those effects were achieved by the intervention of a tot of floral-smelling crimson liquor, which the woman had Kareen administer, "for safety's sake." Artemis immediately wept steaming saltwater from every pore.)

(The latter effect was achieved with branches of hawthorn, courtesy of her husband.)

She wordlessly pours Kareen a cup of reddish tea. "Good help," she says firmly.

"Thank you. Medicine was never my specialty, but I can follow directions."

"I'd ice your burns," she mentions, "but we've got no ice. Have got a balm, though."

She retrieves a clay jar. The substance within is moss-green and smells overpoweringly medicinal.

"Thank you." She hisses slightly as she dabs the ointment on; the flesh is still very raw. But she keeps a stiff upper lip about it. 

"I'm Mary Kille," the woman mentions. "And the mister's Edward."

"Kareen," none of these people know anything about her family they won't have questions if she uses Dad's name instead of Papa's, "Magnus."