At sea. It was an unfathomably poetic answer, but also seemed entirely accurate: Mrs. Malfoy seemed lost and bewildered, certainly conscious but possibly still too confused to qualify as quite well. That was unfortunate. Phyri was not especially used to feeling worried for people – nor indeed to people swooning in her company – and she did not exactly know how she would explain this to anyone, nor whether or not it had been partially her fault.

Her eyes had fluttered open, though. That was a start. “Well, you are breathing,” Phyri teased, leaning in over her as if to test it, “so I suppose you’ll live. Thankfully.” (In truth she fancied November Malfoy might actually have some internal frailty or wasting sickness that would send her to an early grave, but she did not want to suggest it out loud in case Mrs. Malfoy deteriorated on the spot.)

“Can you sit up, do you think?” Porphyria offered November her hand, in case she needed the help to be pulled upright; if not, she could stay there, but if she felt that weak then Phyri suspected her gown might need loosening about the waist.

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