The problem with being brought back from the dead after being fatally wounded is that it doesn't necessarily heal the wounds: they'd been open when he woke up, not bleeding but hurting like blazes, and continuing to hurt even after they were stitched up. Milk of the poppy had barely touched the pain. After that, they'd been tender for months, even still tender sometimes by the time she saw them, or itching like all seven hells at once.

They're still angry, puckered things now, but he welcomes her touch on them.

What she tells him is strange, though. The Regency seems so advanced in comparison to anything they've known before, with their strange helms and their rooms with shifting walls and bright lights to keep their captives from sleeping, but... "Miniature arrows? Poisoned arrows?"

It sounds like something out of a story about the Children of the Forest.