Cressida feels like it takes forever to reach the safety of the tent again - especially with Graves leaning against her for support. He may be nothing more than skin and bones from his abuse at the hands of Grindelwald, but he's still surprisingly heavy, and so very weak. He's shaking by the time he collapses on the bed. She quickly pours him some of Mama's potion and breaths a spell over the rim of the mug to warm the noxious liquid up. She's not sure she's saying the right words - Mama never taught her much beyond how to use her own abilities in legilimency and her gifts at divination - but the mug warms up under her touch.

"Here." She shoves it in his hands. He wisely drinks it down while she hunts through Papa's bag. She finds the vial of dittany and sets it aside. A jar of peppermint catches her eye, and she freezes as an idea occurs to her. Soon she's picking through the bag once more and pulling out other herbs until three more little containers have joined the dittany on the vanity. She grabs a half empty glass of lemonade that was left behind from lunch and tosses the remaining contents out through the door of the tent. Someone yelps in surprise at being splashed, and she throws a half hearted sorry over her shoulder as she returns to her work.

"Shirt off please." Cressida commands him as she picks up the first vial.

Graves doesn't move. He eyes the little glass jar. "What is that?"

"Dittany. You splinched yourself."

"Apply it to the scratches while you're at it. It'll help heal those too."

"No."

"No?" His fingers fumble while unbuttoning the shirt, and it occurs to her that she should probably offer to help him with that. But the thought of assisting him with undressing makes her stomach flip flop and her heart skip a beat or two. Funny how it didn't bother her while he was out of it, but that's probably because he wasn't staring at her so intently then. She decides that it's his eyes that unnerve her so. They're too bright. Too intelligent.

"Papa will notice."

"Ah. Smart girl."

She bites her cheek in an effort to keep from blushing, but she can still feel the warmth creeping over her skin. As soon as the wound is revealed she drops the thin liquid onto the wound and then quickly turns back to the vanity. She dumps the rest of the vials and herbs into the mug along with a bit of soft wax. As she mixes them together, he attempts to ask her questions about her background - what house was she in Ilvermorny? Where was her wand? Et cetera - but the stern auror act is interrupted by frequent coughing fits, and she's too busy making sure she gets the salve just right, for the interrogation to turn up any results.

By the time that's done, Cressida regained enough of her composure that she feels she can face him again. Only her blush returns the second she realizes that she'll need to slather his skin with the pungent salve for it to do any good. While she might have touched him before, it's never been while he was awake - nor in such an intimate way. She hands him the mixture instead. "Rub this on your chest - it'll help with the cough."

Graves's nose wrinkles, but he does as she says. Afterwards, he flops back on the bed, his chest rising sharply as he deeply inhales. Between the salve with its strong notes of mint, and Mama's potion, it isn't long before his cough is back in check and his breathing has eased. It's not a cure, but it's definitely helping, and Cressida is more than a little annoyed with herself that she didn't think of it sooner.

"It's something Mama used to mix up for us when we would get colds when we were younger." She explains as she sets about fixing the stitches that popped during his escape. "Peppermint, and thyme. Some rosemary too."

"Pukwudgie." He says, his voice faint and distant.

"What's that?"

"Pukwudgie." His voice is a little firmer this time. For a moment, she thinks he must be talking about the magical creature, but soon he clarifies himself. "With your abilities, you must have been a Pukwudgie."

Ah. The Ilvermorny house that supposedly favors healers. Cressida's not surprised that he's assumed that she's one of them. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I was a Horned Serpent." She lies. It's the only house she's knows more than two cents about since it was Mama's house at Ilvermorny.

"Then you knew Professor Arkin."

"Who?"

"The Head of Horned Serpent. He was quite a terror when I was at Ilvermorny."

Cressida grunts her reply as she tries to mimic her father's stitches. She can't remember if there was an Arkin featured in any of Mama's tales of the great school or not. She's well aware of Graves studying her as she works, just as she's aware of the strong perfume of peppermint and thyme radiating from his skin. "Is the salve working?" She asks, in a desperate bid to change the subject. "You're not coughing as much. Nor do I hear that wheeze rattling around your chest."

"You're not answering my questions."

"Why do you need to know so much?" She pauses mid stitch to glance up at him. "You're in good hands here. Just relax and heal, and then you can be on your merry way back to whatever sheba you might be stuck on. As for Arkin - he wasn't so bad if you followed the rules."

"There wasn't an Arkin at Ilvermorny. Hasn't been for years."

"I wouldn't remember - I was only there for a year or two."

"They why would you say you do remember him?"

"I got him confused with another teacher. Armson, or whatever. He was over potions. But I may even be confused about that - it has been nearly fifteen years after all, and, again, I was only there for a year or two." She stabs his skin with the needle, and while he doesn't yelp in pain, she can hear the sharp inhale of his breath. She flushes a little, feeling bad for abusing him so. "Now please stop your nattering and let me focus."

Graves only gives her a moment or two of silence before he starts in again. "Why were you only there for a year -"

"Or two." She corrects him.

His lips quirk upwards in something resembling a smirk. "- Or two?"

"I had to come home and help Mama and Papa."

"The law states -"

"I'm well aware of what the law states. I'm also well aware of what could happen to me for breaking the damn law." Cressida finishes the last stitch and begins to wrap the gouges on his forearm with fresh bandages. "And even if I can't remember who Professor Amson or Arkin or Zukov is and if they were a terror or not, I am very well aware of who you are. I'm at your mercy as much as you are at mine."

"So you still stay abreast of things then."

"To a point."

"Do you have any recent copies of the Ghost?"

"There is one."

"Can I see it?"

"If I can sneak it past Papa." Now that she is done tending to him, she puts as much space between him and herself. She knows Vesta has a copy of The Sheik tucked away in her trunk. She's read it twice already and she knows it's pure trash, but it's better than spending her evening being grilled by Graves. Between his questions, and their trek through the camp earlier, she feels completely and utterly exhausted. She plops down on Vesta's cot and flips to the first page.

She can feel the frustration rolling off of Graves. As strong as his walls might be, the annoyance still leaks through the cracks like dark mist. He wants to continue with his interrogation. He's used to having prisoners at his mercy. To being in control. After so many months of being at Grindelwald's mercy, it must be beyond vexing to finally be free only to still be so dependent on the goodwill of others. As much as she might pity him though - her family must come first. So she presses her lips into a thin line and acts as if The Sheik is the most fascinating novel in the world.

Graves swings his legs up into the bed and arranges his pillows and his blankets around him to his liking. "Is there anything else in here to read?"

"Just dime store romances." Cressida shakes her head. "Hardly the fine quality of literature I'm sure you're used to."

"Even a penny dreadful would be appreciated - anything to break up the monotony since conversation is not your strong suite."

She feels the flush creep across her face again - clear up to the tips of her ears. "None of my customers seem to complain."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him looking about the tent. His gaze settling on and noting the pieces of past jewelry and silk shawls. "Ah. I see."

She stifles a groan; he probably thinks she's a hoochie coochie dancer or something. As embarrassing as it is to have him think so little of her, it's better than him finding out the truth. Right now he might let her go, but if he knew she was practicing magic in front of no-majs - even though divination is something no-majs have been doing for years on their own - she doubts she can convince him to look the other way. So she bites her lip and buries her head in the book even though she would like to do nothing more than throw the offending text across the room.