"Rough," Antonin told Orla simply. "She's dried out, right enough. But she thinks she can white-knuckle sobriety - no support or counseling at all. She's very headstrong. I don't give her good odds for a long-term prognosis. Still, I'd consider it a favor if you keep this confidential. For the sake or her child, I'd rather word of her treatment not reach the erstwhile Minister just now."
He went on, "If if was anybody but you, I'd question competence in the amount of potions she was given. I'm suspecting, though, that she was getting potions prescribed by several healers, taking advantage of the frequent confusion here at the Shack."
"Not to mention," he shook his head sadly, "all the odds and ends floating about on the streets these days. Its a shame more isn't being done to end the confusion here and take care of the less savory drug traffic out there."
"You know, this war and your farcical Minister can't last too much longer. Given your abilities, you ought to think about a future position of more responsibility in the British Healer's ranks."