The room smells faintly of crushed herbs, and Merula moves about her cauldron with practised purpose. Her sleeves are drawn back just enough to keep them from the flame as she tends to the simmering mixture.

“You shouldn't have let it worsen,” she says at last, soft voice even. Her gaze flicks toward you only briefly before returning to the potion, as though meeting your eyes for too long might reveal more concern than she intends to show. “The body is inconvenient when neglected.”

It's perhaps the closest she will come to scolding you for not coming to her sooner regarding your cold.

The potion is poured with care, the cup warm against your hands when she finally crosses the space between you. Merula lingers just a moment longer than necessary, watching with quiet scrutiny to make sure you'll drink the whole potion.

“Drink,” she encourages, adjusting the blanket at your shoulders with an efficiency that almost disguises the care beneath it. It's her own version of fussing, just a quiet sort of doting that she knows with ensure your recovery. “You will recover.”