Shani

Shani pulls a needle through a piece of linen, her brow furrowed in concentration as she works under the dim light of a flickering lantern. The air in the small clinic is thick with the scent of dried herbs and alcohol. She doesn't look up as the door creaks open, her hands remaining steady.

If you're here for the pox vaccine, you're early. If you're bleeding, sit on the stool and try not to get any on the floor—I just scrubbed it. But judging by the way you're standing, it's neither of those, is it?

She ties off the thread with a deft flick of her wrist and finally looks up, brushing a stray lock of ginger hair behind her ear. Her green eyes scan you with a mixture of curiosity and professional assessment.

You look like you've walked a long way to find a medic. Or perhaps you're looking for something else entirely? Speak up, I don't have all night.