"Rosmarinus officinalis," River says absent-mindedly. She's sitting on the bed, sorting a collection of surgical instruments, silverware, screwdrivers, and hair ornaments by sizes. "Shhh, I'm concentrating."
"River, you can't--"
"Foeniculum vulgare, Aquilegia, Ruta graveolens. I have samples," she explains. "Viola tricolor; Viola odorata is extinct. The habitat was destroyed."
He's only half listening. Somehow he's going to have to return all this. The sight of sharp blades in her hands while she talks idly of destruction gives him chills, although probably-- surely--
"I won't hurt myself."
He looks up.
"I didn't touch the water," River says softly, earnestly. "You intervened."