Mirra knelt. Her hands found Renna's wrist, her neck, her forehead. The healer's examination was quick, practiced, the routine of a woman who had done this dozens of times on adventurers who had been beaten by monsters.
"She is stable. The healing worked. She will sleep until morning." Mirra looked up at me. "Her pulse is strong. She is just — exhausted. And scared."
"Good." I sat at the bar. The stool creaked under my weight. I looked at the shelves — the bottles of wine, the casks of ale, the glasses hanging from their hooks. "Pour me something."
Mirra hesitated. "I do not drink—"
"Not you. The other one." I looked toward the back room, where the second bartender — the one who had called Renna's name — had retreated. "Come out. I know you are there."
