Isabella glances at them quickly, but she has other priorities at the moment. "Dill - cilantro - mint - shredded ginger - parsley," she tells it, pausing between each one with distraction or to pant with lingering pain. "Bottle of pine sap?" she tries. It won't give her that; she eyes the door and the twenty feet to Metis's stock of such things dubiously, and says "Bottle of maple syrup" instead. That she can get. She drizzles it one-handed into shaky runes in a square on the floor, her other hand clutching Path gently to her chest.