Wheeling Gull Isle but sleep won't set me free

ramesses watched the woman draw herself together, even as she described the warming of the land. the opening of it. deciding to bully his way into a chance for a better opinion of himself reflected in feminine eyes, pharaoh sat down — closely. unless she pulled away he would draw upon the scent of salt and of others with his careful senses.
"a wisewoman. they hold the knowledge of plants and pass it down. they are sought for their salves and potions." such things happened even within the cool halls seti had ruled, though in discreet ways. one of his father's concubines was said to have sought a crone's inventory of such dark feminine knowledge to expel a sacred son from her womb. ramesses had never known her fate.
and now it did not matter. his attentions were elsewhere. 
his companion was thin. perhaps it suited a spinster toiling away at herbs. pharaoh would not know. "are you a healer? or is it dirt you know. the planting of things." he meant to compliment, perhaps in the way one might compliment the green fields of a faithful peasant worker. it would not appear as such, but ramesses did not care. he meant only to know what she did.