She looks up at the boy, and her mind frowns in at itself, the faint echoes of her previous response haunting her, //sympathy, sympathy, sympathy. This boy is lonely and stuck without any real place or position, here, and has far enough troubles of his own, if he's coming to me of all people for company.//
And, so she pulls out a thin smile, and swallows down her brooding thoughts, "No, no, its nothing child. Old women, we are moody things, you know, that's all," then clicks her brain quickly through what she thinks she OUGHT to be talking about, "Indeed. A antidotist? Short of the herbalists and alchemists, I can't say I've ever met one before now. Where does one seek a position as such? Is it an art of private practice? Or do you seek out a patron? In the bad old days, of course, the antidotist would have just been, you know, a secondary duty of the poisoner, non?"