The old surgeon's gaze snaps back to his apprentice, suddenly as hard and sharp as flint.

"Ve do not sleep in the chapel for hours and hours breathing zhis miasma," Volodymyr hisses. Then, punctuating each word with a jab of his gloved forefinger against Finian's chest, adds: "Zhat ist zhe difference." Grimacing, his demeanour shifts at the question. "Ja, I do now. If you are determined to stay here, I vant a reckoning. Someone in zhis rabble ist bound to die in zhis cold. Inform me immediately if it happens."