The dim bedroom was filled with the strong smell of herbs and the stale air that was characteristic of a sick person. Farrias half-reclined on the simple wooden bed, wrapped in a heavy old blanket, his face waxen, his breathing labored, and every cough making his hunched body tremble, causing the bed boards to creak.
Bonne held a small clay bowl, the bowl filled with steaming dark brown medicinal juice, its bitter aroma assaulting her nostrils. Her face, which was usually fiery and loud, now only showed deep worry and fatigue, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes appearing deeper.
"Get up, you old fool." Her voice was hoarse and low, yet her movements were surprisingly gentle. She sat on the edge of the bed, carefully propping up Farrias's heavy head and neck with one hand to allow him to sit up halfway. "Drink it, don't dawdle."
