“Try not to move around too much,” she said, briskly. “I don’t want you to start bleeding again.” She conjured a pair of scissors from somewhere and began to cut off his shirt. “Stay still. I need to examine you and these clothes need burning.”
Marchant made a weak sort of noise and did as he was asked. Or he might have passed out again. He hadn’t opened his eyes at all.
“We will talk about this,” she said, pinning Rob with gimlet eyes. “But first, I need to stitch this gash on his hand,” she glared at the offending appendage as if she held it personally responsible for its injury, “and then we need to get this man into a proper bed and we all need to wash.”
* * * *