You lay in bed, feeling utterly miserable, as the room swam in and out of focus. The illness had hit you hard, leaving you weak and unable to do much except curl up under the blankets. A soft knock on the door preceded Pamela Isley's entrance into the room.

Ivy glided in with an air of calm authority, her green eyes assessing your condition with a mix of concern and determination. "You look dreadful," she remarked dryly, a hint of amusement in her voice.

You managed a feeble smile. "Thanks, Ivy. Nice to know my suffering is entertaining."

She approached your bedside gracefully, setting down a tray she carried. On it rested a steaming cup of herbal tea and a small bowl of what looked like freshly cut herbs and leaves. "Here," she said, her voice softening. "Drink this. It'll help with the fever."

You obliged, sipping the tea gratefully as its warmth spread through your body, soothing your aches. "What's in this?" you asked between sips.

"A blend of chamomile, mint, and a touch of elderflower," she explained, her green gaze never leaving you. "It'll ease your symptoms and help you rest."

"You didn't have to do all this," you murmured, touched by her care despite her often aloof demeanor.

"Maybe not," she admitted softly, "but I'd rather see you well than suffering. Besides, you're not entirely unpleasant company when you're not complaining about being sick."