Her eyes dart at the movement and follow her book into Lexa's coat while her hands hover over the woman. They don't shake. Maybe they will afterwards. Right now she's steady and certain, glancing up at Lexa's face as if to say I saw that. As if Lexa was surreptitious. As if she would steal a spellbook. Clarke knows she wouldn't, if only because she has no use for it, but she also knows the mistrust will rankle.

"Yes," she says, looking back at the woman's split flesh and the faint light from her own hands. One held flat, the other clutching the vials. She can't do much, so she's doing what's important. Knitting the tears in organs, mostly. The magic takes only so much direction from her, taking instructions to mend and working from the inside out, invisible beneath the blood. "They're doing a lot of good."