"Why isn't she waking up?" Atticus demanded as he paced around the room anxiously, staring down at Daphne's face, slack with sleep. "It's been two whole days! Are you sure you gave her the correct treatment?"
"Oh no, I'm purposely sabotaging her recovery so that you'll sulk around me like a cranky goblin," the doctor said with a deadpanned expression. "Of course I treated her to the best of my abilities, you buffoon!"
"How could you call me that? I'm your king!" Atticus spluttered.
In comparison to Atticus's anxiety, Sirona was calmly mixing herbs in her stone pot. She would normally create her concoctions in the kitchen or in her own quarters, but Atticus had all but ordered her to stay with Daphne around the clock, just in case she needed emergency medical attention.
And now he had the nerve to distrust her expertise after evicting her from her workplace! She brandished her pestle at him threateningly.
