The Imperial physician was still hovering by Iryna's bedside, fussing with the silk bedding as though one last adjustment might somehow improve her condition. His fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the small glass vial of clear fluid on her bedside table. He was an older man, his velvet robes smelling faintly of dried lavender and sour vinegar, and he moved with the frantic, bird-like anxiety of a courtier who knew his head was directly on the chopping block if his royal patient took a turn for the worse.
"Really, there is no need for all of this extra trouble," Iryna said as she leaned back against the high, stuffed pillows. "The High Priest actually already came to check on my condition this morning. I told him then, and I will tell you now, I am already quite fine. An ice garden? You want one right now? I can make that happen."
