Surprisingly, Chase's technique seemed to work. Song was simply too sick to bother feeling patronized, which, considering her pride, meant she was very sick indeed.

She sighed, a sigh both of sorrow and of exasperation, but quieted and relaxed further into the warmth of the bed. His bed, though it had lost all but the faintest ghost of his scent, and what was left may have been only her imagination.

She wanted to thank Chase, wanted to beg her not to leave, but couldn't quite find the strength to open her mouth again. Soon enough she couldn't even keep her eyes open, and surrendered with only minor resistance back into a light, delicate slumber.