2 June - visiting the surgeon

He was asking some sort of question about her head. "I see the lights." She waved her hand to indicate how the lights had moved. "I vomit."

Lights? Montreuil sighed. That still didn't necessarily rule anything out. Right. "I am going to examine your head," he told her and, bending closer, proceeded to examine her skull for contusions.

She winced at the touch, but his hands were fairly gentle. She spoke again while he examined her head. "I sleep today. I do not walk. My eyes... I sleep. I would like to sleep."

"You and a good many others, I should expect," Montreuil remarked dryly. As far as he could tell, the prisoner had not sustained any injuries to the head and, as he continued to examine her, he found none of the usual evidence that the pain and sensitivity were the result of overindulgence in the fruits of Dionysus. Grumbling, he withdrew and began the tedious process of extracting the necessary supplies from the carefully secured and packed away chests and cases.

"Drink this," he ordered, returning several minutes later and proffering the smaller of the two cups he carried.

"I drink?" she repeated, making sure she understood correctly. Ordinarily she would not have been so trusting, but ordinarily she felt better than this. She lifted the cup and downed the liquid in one gulp.

"Bon." He took back the small vessel and handed her the larger one, a common, tin drinking cup. "Water," he said by way of explanation, "Drink that also. And get in the wagon." He jerked his thumb at the back of the vehicle. "You. Sleep in the wagon. Now."

She drank eagerly from the cup of water, glad to wash away the taste of the medicine, though it was not the worst she had ever taken. And then she realized that he was instructing her to get in the wagon. She sighed with relief and even gratitude, almost forgetting that the man was one of her captors.

"Thank you," she murmured, and then she climbed the steps to the wagon and peered into its welcoming darkness to find a place to sleep.