“Oh no, I didn’t mean to confuse you, Mrs Snickersworth.” Miranda calmly told the patient in the bed with a smile. Edna Snickersworth had appeared thoroughly perplexed when the Head Healer had entered the cubicle, introduced herself and carefully lowered herself into the seat next to the patient’s bed. “Your healer will be with you soon, I am sure of it.”

“You are not a healer, Madam?” Snickersworth was gripping her abdomen, red-faced and in serious pain but Elliot didn’t seem to notice as she maintained a calm and friendly demeanour.

“I am. As I explained to you, Madam, I am the head healer.” Her dark eyes were on the curtain, waiting for it to be pulled open to allow entrance to Mrs Snickersworth’s assigned healer. Jonquil Enright had been specifically chosen to see to this patient due to the nature of the case and the patient’s well known personality through St Mungo’s. Mira herself remembered having dealt with her years back for being injured in a similar manner by the same animal. She was a challenge, difficult to deal with and therefore the perfect patient to observe her subordinate with.

“Then I demand you sort me out now.”

Mira’s brow quirked, revealing how unimpressed she was at such a demand. She made the snap decision to thoroughly prepare the delightful Mrs Snickersworth for Enright.
“I’d really rather not. I’ve just had my nails done,” She flashed her hand before sitting back in the chair. “I’m here more in a supervisory manner, you see.”

Edna Snickersworth pushed herself up on the bed, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“Why would I need supervising?”
“Well,” Mira leaned forward as if confiding a secret. “She can be a bit…not person friendly, this healer. You’re such a well-established patient, Mrs Snickersworth, that I thought you’d be an expert to deal with her. Give her a bit of a run for her money, if you see what I mean?”

Edna’s mouth opened, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Well I never…”

The curtain was pulled open to admit the healer in question and Mira looked up, expression calm, analysing. “Do pretend I’m not here.”

Jonquil always started out just fine. Unless she was shaken, she was the sort who walked about the ward with a smile on her face, as friendly and approachable as anyone you'd hope to meet somewhere like a hospital. She had excellent posture. She tried to take care of any blood stains on her robes as efficiently as possible, her sleeves were always pinned, and her dark hair was always pulled back neatly. She wasn't unfriendly and she wasn't unprofessional... on the abstract, anyway. Things did tend to get a little murky at a certain point, however – namely, the point during which she made the mental shift from witch at large to active practitioner. She was an imperfect perfectionist. She knew this. She'd been told. And she was doing something about it, at least in her own mind. Even so, she didn't expect anyone to tattle.

Thus, when she opened up the curtains and entered the cubicle with that massive, dimple-revealing smile of hers on her face, she'd been surprised and caught off-guard by the presence of the head healer. This wasn't the head of the ward, or even the head of the department. This was the head of the hospital, imploring her to... ignore her. Something flickered in her expression, her smile faltering for a moment and then readjusting itself – nerves. She shouldn't have worried, she knew. She was an excellent test taker, generally. And no, this wasn't a test, but it may as well have been. Taking the Head Healer's advice, she turned her eyes to the patient as she took up her file, only glancing down to quickly read the patient's name.

“Hello, Mrs. Snickersworth,” she said warmly, standing near the foot of the bed, “I'm Healer Enright. I've been told that you have a wound that needs closing. Can you tell me about what caused the injury?” That was simple enough – most cases started off that way, assuming they weren't dire emergencies. Frankly, Jonquil preferred trauma – less chatting, more working. Ideally, she'd work exclusively in the surgery.

”I can,” the red-faced witch replied, ”Just as I'm sure you can stop your incessant chatter and examine me!”

That took Jonquil aback a bit. Her eyes grew momentarily large, and though she didn't so much as glance in her direction, she was never more aware of the fact that the Head Healer was near enough to be breathing on her neck. “Of course,” she replied, nodding (and feeling a bit self conscious – had she been rambling?), “But it's important that you give me as much information as possible so that I can give you the best treatment. Can you tell me, foremost, what creature caused the injury?” The chart had told her that bleeding had been stopped and the wound had been cleaned before she'd been brought in. “Why don't you show me the wound while we chat?” she suggested. It would save time, if nothing else.

Little surprise registered on Enright’s face or in her demeanour when she set eyes on the Head Healer in the cubicle beside the patient bed. Mira’s brow quirked, intrigued as to how her presence would affect the young healer. Most staff in her command didn’t appreciate Elliot’s analysing gaze watching them in their work. It was, however, rare of her to do such a thing. Elliot was probably the most hands on Head Healers the hospital had seen in a century.  She hated staying in her office with paperwork and admin. She’d gained the job through her expertise in healing, it seemed ridiculous to stop what she was best at just to keep up to date with a few signatures.

So Miranda rarely came to sit and silently watch a healer. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she was capable of only watching. Even before Healer Enright’s arrival she had wanted to berate Mrs Snickersworth for her ridiculous keeping of the creature she still refused to get rid of.

“Just as I'm sure you can stop your incessant chatter and examine me!” The edges of the Head Healer’s lips quirked as dart eyes darted from the uncomfortable patient to the healer who desperately tried to ignore her boss’s presence.

Enright questioned the cause of the injury and Mrs Snickersworth suddenly looked incredibly disapproving. She still thought no one knew what she was keeping at home that had caused her to frequent St Mungo’s over the years but the daft old witch didn’t realise how much healers could tell from a mere 3 inch wound.

“I haven’t come here for a cup of tea and a hobnob, girly.” Edna retorted, scowling with displeasure across the small cubicle. “I could still be bleeding here for all you know. Could be dead by the time you’ve gotten around to patching me up.” Then her grey eyes snapped to Elliot and she poked a stubby finger in the Head Healer’s direction. “All your bloody lot want to do is natter. And how old is she, healer? 15? She’s still got spots on her chin!”

Elliot struggled to maintain a plain, pleasant expression. She lifted a hand as a sign to stop the witch from continuing. “I’d refrain from demeaning my staff if you will, Madam.” The words didn’t have the same kindness as her tone had held before Enright’s entrance. Now there was a mild threat in them as she gazed at Snickersworth.

“Your file told me that a mediwitch handled the basic first aid upon your arrival here,” Jonquil said evenly – and why she felt the need to defend herself to someone so unpleasant was anyone's guess... but probably had more to do with the presence of the big boss than it did a need to prove herself competent.”Hospitals traditionally employ something called 'triage', madam, meaning patients with acute needs are tended to first, to prevent situations like the one you're describing.” She thought that she was being informative, giving Mrs. S a little knowledge – Jonquil may have liked that herself, she thought, if she were in the other witch's place. It really didn't occur to her that she'd more or less just implied that the patient in front of her wasn't important. She didn't possess as much natural empathy as she expected from others.  It would take more than a few semesters of psychology courses to teach her that.

And then, suddenly, it was like she wasn't in the room. That, more than any of the woman's insolent ranting, hurt. She'd had rude patients before. You had to expect that from people when they were scared and in pain. That was something she hadn't needed to be taught... but this was something else entirely. She'd worked too hard to be treated like this before she'd done a single thing to deserve it! And what was lower than commenting on physical appearance? Her lips were drawn together, and she stood even straighter, as if the few additional millimeters of height might change the injured woman's opinion of her. She had to say something... but what was there to say to that? Thankfully, Healer Elliot brought her authority to the table, and Jonquil allowed herself to expel all of the air from her lungs. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

“If you'd like to be treated quickly, giving me the information I need is an excellent way to start,” she suggested, trying to be brief, all traces of the smiley, dimple-dappled young healer long gone. “And,” she went on, “As I said before, showing me the wound would also help speed up the process.” 

“As I said before, showing me the wound would also help speed up the process.”  Enright clearly informed the patient sat up in bed, a very business-like manner as opposed to a caring one. If one were to watch the witch’s reaction to such words, they would have presumed the healer had told her to strip and perform a naked dance stood on her bed. Mrs Snickersworth let out a pained squeal and she gripped her side protectively.

Elliot, now biting her tongue, sat back, comfortably, in the chair to enjoy the show. She was prepared to step in if necessary, especially if the unpleasant witch decided to further insult and demean a member of Elliot’s team. Dark eyes flew between each witch in the room, studying, judging.

“Well I can’t very well strip! Not in a public place! Show you my wound!” Snickersworth’s voice was getting steadily louder, steadily more irate and agitated. Mira’s lips pursed tightly together as she considered how Enright might handle it. Did she have an empathetic and efficient healer to be proud of, or a blunt and focused one on her hands? “I’ve told you what the problem is. It’s already been exposed once, girly. Taking it out again is superfluous. The air will make it worse, I know it.”

It was a true struggle not to roll her eyes at the certainly Snickersworth displayed. It evidently hadn’t occurred to her to allow the healers to do their job. It never did.

The Head Healer pushed herself up from the chair and took the clipboard from Enright, pulling her glasses down over her eyes to scan the report. She lowered herself back into the chair and removed a self-inking quill from her pocket to scrawl her own notes. Doing something with her hands would surely help her not to do anything with her lips and voice.

Jonquil had to turn her head and look across at Healer Elliot, instructions to ignore her be damned – she had to make sure that this wasn't some sort of cruel prank. There was nothing about the injury that she couldn't handle, but the combination of a difficult patient and the presence of the head healer was making her job hard. This wasn't... normal. There was just enough strangeness surrounding the whole ordeal that she needed the reassurance that she wasn't actually tucked up in her bed at home and having a peculiar dream.

“Madam,” she said, pausing to take a deep breath and steady herself, “This is a hospital, and I'm a qualified healer. I can assure you that there's very little I haven't seen.” That was the understatement of the century. “If you'd like, I can get you a drape for modesty,” she offered, “But it looks like you're in pain, and I'd like to help you, but I can't close a wound that I can't see.” It pained her, almost tangibly, to have to point out the obvious like that, but it was clear that this Snickersworth woman wasn't about to sort out her faulty logic on her own. Why had she come to the hospital if she didn't want treatment? Did she like the bedsheets? The ambiance?

Jonquil still wasn't entirely convinced that this wasn't a joke.

She would have liked to sit down while she continued to address the patient, but Healer Elliot was occupying the chair, the patient's chart in tow. She figured that she had two options at this point – continue her futile attempts to talk her patient into allowing herself to be healed... or sedatives. Logic told her that the latter method would be killing two birds with one stone. It would provide pain and anxiety management for the patient, and headache management for herself. Logic also told her that the big boss might not be too fond of her logic. She wasn't desperate to impress, but she hated to disappoint... so standing around like an imbecile it was!

Unless there was another option. It dawned in her eyes as she stood, and though her expression didn't change, you could see the cogs working behind her eyes. She nodded three times to herself, cleared her throat softly, and stood a little straighter.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Snickersworth,” she said, “I'll only be a moment.” And she turned on her heel and left the cubicle entirely, because somewhere in this hospital this witch had a file. Why should Jonquil reinvent the wheel when there were potentially notes at her disposal? In the back of her mind she was convinced that Healer Elliot had only been so keen to snatch the clipboard out of her hands so she'd have something to lean on while writing out the recommendation that she be sacked. Leaving to do research probably wouldn't change her opinion, then. As always, Jonquil planned to pursue excellence. This day and this case were not exceptions!