Miriam came with a bucket of water to freshen the basin and a stack of clean cloths; she offered a dipper of the restorative liquid from the abbeys springs to the girl who took it with unsteady hands.
"Spit first, child, then drink," said Igraine who presented the wash basin as spittoon before she rose to dump it. Igraine was pleased that no teeth came out, only blood tinged spittle and pus …and Goddess only knows what else, from the looks of her the monster was truly a deviant; she could wait until after the child had recovered in some degree to check for loose and damaged teeth.
Miriam refilled the dipper again and offered it to the girl; she drank deep, lifting the dipper to help the cool water flow easier down her bruised and parched throat. Miriam saw the ripped puncture wounds on her delicate battered neck as well as those on the alabaster skin of her breasts, blood slowly trickled from the deep claw-like scratches that surrounded the lesions and extended across her breasts up to her neck and down onto her torso, the cleansing having dissolved the scabs that had knit the scrapes together. Miriam made the sign of the cross in deference to the Christian God of the Abbey and silently mouthed the healing blessing of the Mother; she kept her head bowed until Igraine returned with the empty washbasin lest either the girl or Igraine see her breaking her vows.
Igraine returned and knelt with the basin. "Suppose we will need another refill or two before tis all done," Igraine said as Miriam poured the contents of the bucket in to the basin. Miriam gave the slight quick nod that was the allowed signal of acknowledgement from one avowed as she.
"But before," the elder woman continued, "… fetch my sewing scissors and thread, the boiled silk not the wool, and some of the new cheesecloth from the stores, both course and fine, and Father Padric's best bottle from the empty herring barrel behind the rectory, and see what is keeping Aubreigh with the salves."
Miriam bowed in respect of the Reverend Mother Superior of her Order and obeyed in silence.
Igraine dipped the cloth in the fresh basin, wrung it slightly and turned her attentions once more to the girl still shivering and whimpering at the feet of the statue.
"What is your name child?" She asked, her gaze being drawn inexplicably from her charge to the face of the Lady.
"Dru…Drucilla," the girl answered meekly.
Igraine imagined she saw tears from the eyes of the icon on its cheeks as the rays of the morning sun illuminated its carved wooden countenance.