Not the use I intend, but it will not go to waste. [she is sitting up again to shrug off the heavy coat on her shoulders. The rain had rolled off it for the most part, so her shirt and vest beneath were majority dry. What is soaked through is her back, blood still seeping from an open stab wound in her shoulder. The fabric of all three layers had torn around it and while it may had clotted and closed if she rested earlier, she had not.

She fishes a dainty handkerchief of red lace from her vest pocket, crumpling it in her hand. Taking the glass, she tips the rum onto it until it is saturated. Reaching over a shoulder, she pressed it deep into the spot without even a wince. Her face may even read as relief, breathing out in a steady sigh.]