Obligingly, Djura reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief; a noble-looking embroidered thing that had been a gift from his mother. The Baron did look like a noble gentleman today, but quintessentially non-frilly, and comparatively modest given that the occasion was a meeting in the Dovecote District. But the handkerchief was less humble with its elaborate corner script of Baron Crossridge.

Djura wouldn't call this "through the woods", given that this was simply a well-beaten tree-lined path that skirted round the back gardens of various cottages, rather than some dangerous track through a wild forest, though he could see why a young woman on her own would rather avoid it. Except today, for whatever reason.

"I am sure the pressure of your handiwork will stem the flow", he replied, having no intention of calling in a doctor; or a "healer", for that matter.