He could hear the disbelief in her voice, accompanied by what he thought might be hope—but perhaps he was projecting, assuming instead how he would feel in her shoes. And, he supposed, it did seem ludicrous now that she had pointed it out.

"Not at the hospital," he hastened to clarify. "I daresay, though, that you can imagine how many are eager to accept healing for a few knuts fewer than they would pay somewhere more...formalized."

Cyrus had long seen his work as a cut above what had previously been available to his particular clientele. Sure, he had to overlook the origins of a stab wound now and again, but all parties involved in his enterprise were rewarded in the arrangement. His solitary line of work was, in the healer's mind, not dissimilar to the services a midwife or hedgewitch might provide: a small, but useful, service.

Healing, he wanted to add, was the last thing that kept him out of the darkness—dark moods, dark thoughts, dark actions. But no, they hadn't been close enough all those years ago for him to divulge something so personal; they certainly were not after so much had passed.