"In a way," she says, diplomatically, sidestepping the way he almost snapped at her just now; she handles him much as he was earlier described, a wounded animal with nigh tangible pride. (One might get the impression she's been here, before, if not in quite the same way. One would be right.) "If you need to, bite the spoon, but try to hold still," she says, settling to work; unwinding the bandages (useless now, good job, Lucius) and taking a closer look at the wound itself as she rinses and cleans it with the antiseptic, careful and deliberate.

She'd based her assessment largely on how it looked before she got the bandages off, but she was right; this needs sutured.