The smells of wormwood and Mournhoth's sheep-wool mingled as I stood by my father's side, watching as he took a skein of clean, downy wool and poured a potion that made my nose crinkle. Papa sighed as he wrung it gently, the smoothing away ratty blankets that lay folded across a frail patient's back. I watched wide-eyed as the man's shoulders lay bare, sharp and liver-spotted, raw and blistered. He gave a cry and moved as papa pressed the medicine against his scabs, father sighing and gentling a healing spell into the old man's head.

"Rest, friend. You are safe."

"Whe-where?" The old man croaked, trying to turn, but only managing to helplessly flop his head on the pillow.

"The Chapel of Stendarr. His mercy be upon you."

"Jacques." The old man gasped, lifting a curled finger as a smile bared his near toothless gums. "Old friend. Always taking care of me." He coughed, chest heaving, eyes bulging out of his head as my father clapped him on the back. "Eugh. And your little girl." His eyes crinkled, the hand reaching for my cheek. I drew away, frightened, but father's hand on my back stilled me. "So nice to see."

"No more talking, George." Papa gently reprimanded. "You need to rest. Say goodbye, Gabby."

I swallowed, staring at the old man as he fell back, his breath drawn as though through grit. "Bye."

Many of papa's patients were the same - old, frail, withered. I stood solemnly by his side as he administered healing to them all, beginning to fidget as the final dark-eyed boy fell to sleep. Papa caught my fingers, chuckling quietly as he led me from the sleeping room into the sealed off place he called his hideaway. The door creaked open, the air cool and musty, glasses shimmering eerily on teetering shelves and pretty cauldrons and retorts on a paper-scattered desk.

"Here we are." Papa smiled, dragging over a tiny stool Falrung had made for me and patting it. "Come on."

I licked my lips, sliding my fingers over the cool curves of carved wood, bears roaring and deer dancing, before clambering on. Papa wound his arm around me, brandishing a pretty yellow-petaled plant and tickling my cheek with it. "Now, what's this one, and what's it for?"

I grinned, grabbing it in my little hands, caressing the dried buds and smelling it before squeaking. "Genet! Pee-pee!"

"Good girl." Papa smiled wryly as he wrapped the plant in parchment. "Genet, or broom, stimulates urine production. Or makes you go pee-pee," he teased. Another flower branched beneath his fingers, bristled and near cracking from month of careful drying. Purple, slipper-shaped buds, leaves reaching to papa's lap. "And this?"

"Um." I bit my lip, fidgeting.

"What's your favorite drink?" He asked, petting the plant.

"Oh! Um. Milk - Milkwort." I nodded solemnly as papa reached for another stem, our game continuing. To me, at least, it was a game, precious time I could spend with my father not shared with mum or Anya or poor, ailing patients. The gentle snores outside grew and fell, sometimes whispers or grumbles, sometimes hellish screams from nightmares, until papa put the final bud away and gathered me in his arms.

"Come on, sweet. Time to go home."

I yawned, nestling in the crook of his arm, listening to the sounds of him cleaning up. The wind outside had fallen to a gentle whisper, snowflakes drifting down and landing in papa's hair. I ran my fingers through his curls, snowflakes melting before I could catch them. Papa's hand played idly at the back of my neck, soothing me as the winds lulled until a blast of warmth and woodsmoke greeted me.

"Jack!" I snapped awake at the sound of Falrung's voice, giggling as I was trapped between them as they hugged. "And the 'lil cub. How's my bear-girl doing?"

I bared my teeth, growling. "Bear-girl! Rgggrr!"

"By Ysmir, don't scare me like that!" He raised his hands, eyes wide in feigned shock. "Can the bear-girl use her big paws to pour the wine while mumma bear stokes the fire?"

"Yes!" I scampered down from papa's arms, grabbing the jug of wine and kneeling carefully over Falrung and papa's goblet. Both were the most precious things we owned, cast in brass polished into gold with dragons twisting as a handle. The wine made me grimace as I poured it, repelled by the smell but fascinated by the pretty bubbles that rose to the surface, by Falrung's thick, hairy palms wrapping around his tankard.

"Cheers, then." Falrung grinned, glancing at papa with a sweet warmth, one that made me tingle, made me think of happy mumma.

Papa smiled back, shrugging off his coat and settling in his chair, taking a quiet Anya in his lap as their cups clinked. "Cheers."

I remember little else of that night - settling into Falrung's lap, his hairy arms around me, the raucous jokes - Falrung Skin-Beater, papa would call him - before mumma would hush them. A hand playing with my hair, mumma whispering something about me sleeping too much and papa brushing it away. The smell of wine, mumma's harsh laughs, and dark, warm silence.