"When was the last time you had new clothes?"
Anders looked down at what he was wearing, brushed a bit of dust off of his pauldrons, and tried not to think about the real answer to Isabela's question. "You don't like the apostate-on-the-run look? I think it's quite dashing."
Isabela stood, hands on hips, booted foot tapping impatiently on the floor, and shook her head. "You used to take care of yourself, Anders." She reached out and flicked his bare earlobe. "Did you sell all your good clothes, your earring, even your old staff?"
"Well, yes," he said, suddenly feeling defensive. He pointedly eyed her extravagant jewelry. "I thought I had better use for the money than clothes and jewelry."
"So what? You took a vow of poverty? Gave everything to the poor? In case you haven't noticed, most of the poor have more than you do now."
Anders surveyed his small domain, the clinic with its meager beds and dirt and mold that collected on the walls and in the corners despite his best efforts to keep the place clean. "I suppose you could say it was a vow of poverty." An unexpected side-effect of Justice was more like it. "An involuntary one."
She tossed a small bag his way before she turned to leave. He caught it and heard coins clink.
"For the healing." She put an extra sway in her step just for him, he knew it. "And for keeping your mouth shut about what you healed," she added.