The sick room shed sat on the sheltered northern side of the communal washhouse, built low against a living limestone ledge that kept the inside cool in summer and protected from the biting alpine winds of autumn. Inside, bundles of dried meadowsweet, coltsfoot, and willow bark hung from the peeled spruce rafters. It filled the dim room with an earthy, astringent scent that masked the sour tang of vinegar dressings, sheep-dip, and unwashed wool.
Paxa Sel cleared a space on the heavy oak frame stand table. She pushed aside a row of heavy clay unguent jars, a wooden listening tube, and a tray of bone-handled lancets. She laid her calfskin medical journal flat under the light of the oiled parchment window. Its pages cross-hatched with was tight, disciplined notes in brown walnut dark oak-ink. Beside the journal rested her bronze measuring tongs rule, a pair of curved razor-sharp scissors. A glass vial filled with dark spirit-extract of poppy.
Kezra Venn, Adra Pike, and Davren stood gathered around the table. Through the open door, the assembly on the central stones was scattering into quiet, determined clusters. Families carrying water buckets, miners sharpening mattocks on the foot-treadle grindstone, and children running down the terrace paths to gather the last bundles of dry bean vines before the frost returned.
