Freed of the basin, John uses his unpunctured arm to lever himself—not upright, but propped at an upward slant upon the pillows. There is roughened brocade upon one, discarded to the foot of the bed while Flint begins the process of shedding his own bloodied items.

"Had I thought of it sooner, there might be more of that apothecary shop left," John answers, though the truth was that he hadn't been entirely sure he'd manage it until he'd expended the energy. "But I'll remember it for next time."

Ha, ha. (They are not finished in Antiva, so how much of a joke is it?)