Judit's beard-length hair is drawn into one severe braid and pinned close against her skull. Her skin has the tawny, weathered texture of old oak, and the creases beside her mouth deepen when she is counting. She smells unmistakably of boiled linen, bitter juniper wash, and the sharp iron tang of sterilized tools; she knows it, and considers it a better perfume than most. She moves with short, economical steps, placing each foot as if the floor might be carrying a sleeping patient. The unexpected detail is that her apron is embroidered with tiny, brightly colored moths, all stitched by her own hand during night watches.

Judit is brisk and unsentimental when work piles up, but keeps small embroidered comforts for patients who are lonely or frightened. She trusts routines because routines once failed her, yet she can bend them when a person's immediate need is unmistakable. With officials she is stubborn and procedural; with sick children she is patient enough to repeat the same reassurance all night.

Judit learned care from her mother, who kept a kitchen-side sickroom in a quarry settlement and taught her that clean water and patient attention mattered more than grand remedies. Years ago, during a fever season, a visiting official insisted on bringing a crowded delegation through the communal sleeping rooms to display the infirmary's work. Judit obeyed, and several patients fell ill afterward. She cannot prove the visitors caused the spread, but the memory of a child's rapid, shallow breathing changed her: now she counts every breath aloud and challenges anyone who treats care as ceremony. In Latchmere she has become senior attendant, trusted by patients and resented by a few officials who want the infirmary used as a public emblem. Her closest ally is the practical laundry worker Vaska, who quietly helps her keep clean sheets in stock. Her ongoing problem is that a shortage of soap and fresh bedding is turning every decision about visitors into a political dispute.