Willow came back from the potcheen celebrations to find Mold crouched over the girl Lomas had hollowed out, and the two of them argued about what happens to what's left of a person.
"What happened?!"
"He, Lomas, returned. We dealt with him, he's dying now."
"Good, best thing for him."
"But what about her?"
"What about her? She's a Ley, just trash - means nothing to me, or you. Take her back to the Leys, let them deal with her."
"No. Not my way. We must restore her."
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Snapping your humerus in the Wisewood is survivable if your landlady keeps crustins-me-ducktee to hand - a painkiller pressed with the cheerfulness of someone who has never specified its contents and does not intend to. She said not to drink alcohol with it. I treated this as general wellness advice rather than a specific contraindication, which I cannot fully recommend.
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Hellsborough has no plaster casts. When I broke my arm in the Wisewood — the mat of leaves beneath me simply slid back, clean as marble, bringing me down hard enough to snap the humerus in two — my landlady fitted a sling and dosed me with something she called crustins-me-ducktee. Combining it with several beers produces dreams that remain vivid several weeks later.
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