Anatole was wavering on his feet when the second set of Glamour filled waves crashed through him - and nearly swept him away completely.
At first his eyes widened, unseeing, and his mouth gaped like a man starving for breath. Then his eyes rolled back into his head - from pleasure, release, pain, all three.
There might have been popping sounds as ribs cracked back into place. The dwarf was too out of it, too lost in the Glamour imbued warmth rushing through him, to make anything beyond a gargling whine.
By the time the warmth had subsided sufficiently for the burned dwarf to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, James Turner had returning with food and drink.
"What kind of healer are you?" Anatole managed to say. He was fumbling for a handkerchief - which he nearly dropped - to dab at his mouth and beard. "I was expecting a sawbones or a minor apothecary, not some mistress of the arcane arts!"