One of the men shrugged and introduced himself. “I’ll remember if I am ill,” he said good-naturedly. “If you stitch up wounds, you might stay around. There’ll be business for you when we’ve finished arguing.”

She was uncertain how to reply, not sure if he was joking or not. She had heard raised voices from the doorway as she came in. “I have needle and silk,” she offered.

One of the others laughed. “You’ll need more than that if we’re invaded. How are you at raising the dead?”

“I’ve never had the nerve to try,” she replied as casually as she could. “Isn’t that more of a job for a priest?”

They all laughed, but she heard a hard, bitter sound of fear in it and realized the power of the undercurrents she had barely listened to before, in her own urgency to find a house and begin a practice.

“What kind of a priest?” one of the men said harshly. “Orthodox or Roman, eh? Which side are you on?”

“I’m Orthodox,” she said quietly, answering because she felt compelled to say something. Silence would be deceit.

“Then you better pray harder,” he told her. “God knows we’ll need it. Have some wine, physician.”

Anna held out her glass and found her hand was shaking. Quickly she put the glass on the table. “Thank you.” When the glass was full she held it up, forcing herself to smile. “Here’s to your good health… except for perhaps a slight skin rash, or the occasional hives. I’m good at that, for a small sum.”

They laughed again and lifted their glasses.

Two