"I will aid you, madame," said the Count. "The day was of a burning heat; you were awaiting some eagles that had been delayed because of the festivities and the associated inebriation... mademoiselle sang the jewel song from Féanoir, and your cat went running after a bird."
"I trapped it, too, and scattered its feathers all over the hotel," said Thibaut "But alas! I still couldn't get the Touiti-bird."
"And while mademoiselle and the cat were absent, do you not remember talking with someone for quite a long time?" concluded the Count.
"Ah yes, now I remember, I talked with a man cloaked in grey, in the style of Lottaloria – a physician, I think, who had some unusual medical theory about the hands of the Count being the hands of a healer..."
"Precisely, madame," said the Count. "That man was I. In the course of a few days, I healed a hobbite smuggler, a warrior maiden who contributed blogues to the local newspapers, and a dysenteric dragon, so that I became known as a great doctor. We talked for quite some time, madame, about various things: about Lugnardo da Vinyamar, dwarvish marriage customs, cabbages, kings, kitty litter; and at length, sharing the common opinion of me, you consulted me about the health of your daughter."
"But the common opinion was correct. You do not, perhaps, realise your own skill at healing."
