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The carriage door opens.

Sarveth steps down without assistance.

She is taller than any human in the lane, her pale hair arranged in severe braids held by silver pins. A black robe falls over an indigo gown, both untouched by road mud. Her eyes match the gown and carry the cold attention of a woman accustomed to immediate obedience.

Humans move away from her path.

Sarveth crosses the lane and enters my clinic.

The room becomes smaller around her.

I stand behind the worktable, where I have been sorting the morning’s rirzed delivery. Three patients occupy the bench along the wall. One is an elderly man with a swollen wrist. The others are children waiting for cough treatments.

All three lower their heads.

“Matron Sarveth,” I say.

“You know me.”

“Everyone below the keep knows who governs its household.”

Her gaze moves over the clinic. She notes the shelves, patched curtains, low fire, and bundles of dried plants suspended from the ceiling.

“You are Fiona Holt.”

“You appear certain.”

“I did not descend from the stronghold to question random healers.”

The older patient attempts to rise.

“Stay seated,” I tell him.

His eyes dart toward Sarveth.

She offers no reassurance. Dark elves do not reassure humans that they will be permitted to remain in their own spaces.

“I require privacy,” she says.

“These people were here first.”

“The matter is royal.”

The word changes the room.

I finish wrapping the man’s wrist. “Keep it dry. Return in three days unless the swelling worsens.”

He nods without looking at me.

I distribute the children’s remedies and repeat the doses to their mother. No one complains about leaving before I finish my usual questions. The woman gathers her children and hurries outside. The older man bows to Sarveth on his way through the door.

Sarveth watches me secure the latch behind him.

“You inspire trust,” she says.

“That is useful in a healer.”

“It is useful in many positions.”