Mary's face flushes red with embarrassment and anger at the warning, but she stays silent for the duration of the diagnosis, listening intently.

'Haemotoma' is one of those words that sounds frightening whatever context it's used in. Like 'algebra'. Or 'cholera'.

(Mary will be looking it up.)

"Magic can do lots of bad things besides making people ill," she says, aloud, her fists screwed up at her sides.

She's still glaring at them all equally, Wellard as much as the rest.

"Why do none of you want to know what happened? You all say not to worry but how can you not worry when you do not know?"