The medical wing smelled like sanctified alcohol and expensive guilt.
House Seraphel had donated half the healing arrays. The Church of Radiance had donated the doctrine carved into the walls. Astral Zenith had donated the students who would bleed into both and call it growth.
White curtains divided the treatment chamber into private sections that were not private at all. Privacy, like mercy, became more decorative the closer one stood to power.
Seraphina led me to the last cot near a narrow window overlooking the lower bridges.
Smart position.
One exit to the corridor. One window too high for normal escape but useful for sightlines. Curtain shadows that would show feet before a visitor entered. A mirrored brass basin angled toward the doorway.
Either the saintess candidate had excellent instincts, or the room had been arranged by someone used to treating nobles who preferred not to be surprised while wounded.
Probably both.
"Sit, please," Seraphina said.
