“Stay on your stomach, Menolly; it’ll be easier to change your bandages,” Mirrim said. “I haven’t had to do many feet, if s true; but if you don’t have to see what’s going on, that makes it easier. Everyone at Southern said my hands are gentle, and I’ll drown your feet in numbweed. Or would you want some more fellis juice? Manora said you could.”

Menolly shook her head.

“Brekke ... ” and here Mirrim’s voice faltered briefly, “Brekke taught me how to change sticky bandages because I ... Oh, dearie me, your feet look just like raw meat. Ooops, that’s not the right thing to say, but they do. They will be all right, Manora said,” and there was such confidence in that statement that Menolly preferred to believe it, too. “Now Threadscore ... that’s nasty. You’ve just lost all the skin on your feet, that’s all, but I expect you feel that’s quite enough. Sorry. Caught you there. Anyway, you’ll not even have scars once the new skin grows, and if s really amazing how quickly skin does grow. Or so I’ve observed. Now Threadscore, that’s nasty for healing. Never quite fades. Lucky for you T’gran’s Branth spotted you running. Dragons are very longsighted, you know. There, now, this should help ... ”

Menolly gasped involuntarily as Mirrim slathered cool numbweed on her right foot. She’d been biting her lips against the pain while Mirrim, with very gentle hands indeed, had removed the blood-caked bandages but the relief from pain was almost a shock. If she’d only lost the skin from her feet, why did they hurt so much more than her hand had?

“Now, we’ve only the left foot to go. The numbweed does help, doesn’t it? Did you ever have to boil it?” Mirrim asked with a groan and, as usual, didn’t wait for an answer. “For three days I just grit my teeth and dose my nose and firmly remind myself that it would be so much worse if we didn’t have numbweed. I suppose that’s the bad with the good Manora’s always saying we have to have. But you’ll be relieved to know that there’s no sign of infection ... ”

“Infection?” Menolly jerked herself up on her elbows, craning her head about

“Will you keep still?” Mirrim glared so authoritatively that Menolly forced herself to relax. All she could see of her feet were salve-smeared heels. “And you’re very, very lucky there isn’t any infection. After all, you’d been running shoeless over sand, dirt and goodness knows what. It took us forever to wash the grit off.” Mirrim made a sympathetic sound. “Just as well we’d dosed you good.”

“You’re sure there’s no infection this time?”

“This time? You haven’t done this before, have you?” Mirrim’s voice was shocked.