Little John clicked his tongue as he shook his head. "No, that'd take a fair wallop of power, definitely outta my skillset. There's some saints who can, Brigit gave one of my lot a hand when he was beaten up, last year. He was practically good as new, after that. I've heard some stories too," he added. "Other gods who can, but they're as like to curse as heal you."
His voice had darkened, not dramatically, but darkened enough from the long late night conversations he'd had with Much lately, as Much stressed about Marcie's imminent return and the Bastard Shaped Greek Arsehole he didn't trust not to keep his distance. Little John had heard, in great detail, just how sick Marcie had been last year. Detail enough to darken a voice at a bright and friendly table.
Lyra didn't notice. She'd buried both her hands in her hair and was feeling a little pale. "Saint Brigid?" she echoed, staring at Little John. It felt like her book was burning a hole in her bag and into her leg, and honestly today she would barely be surprised. "Saint Brigid, patron saint of Ireland, that— that one?"
"And blacksmiths," Little John added, seeing the sudden pallor on Lyra's face and trying to lighten the mood with a wink.
"Hah," said Lyra, faintly, her head spinning too much to appreciate the gesture with any more energy than the puff of air she'd given it. "She's my sister's favourie, outta this book I found. She likes chickens. My sister." She gave her head a hearty shake, but it cleared nothing. "I always thought— when you talked bout saints before— I didn't think you meant like— saints from actual Catholicism. I thought you meant like... I don't know what I thought. Not that. How can it be that? I know you just said but— how can it be that? How could an actual saint knock up my mom and disappear? You can't mean actual, canonised saints, right?!"