He was sick, but it was a good sick, the kind after which he felt better, the kind with which he was all too familiar. There was no permanence to it, just a certain slush and shallow to his thoughts, a disinclination to move, and the distinct impression that, in a moment, he would stomp his feet hard enough to crack the lead from his bones.
Toar stood at the window, and bounced on his toes experimentally. Then he dropped back onto his heels. Something cracked, but he only felt heavier. Groaning, he braced himself against the window frame, and his groan twisted into a laugh.
“Get back into bed,” Jaera said.
Toar turned toward the door. She pushed it open with her elbow, entering without looking at him. In one hand she had a coffee pot, and in the other, his favorite tall, white mug.
Toar raised his eyebrows at her.
She slid farther into the room and set the pot on the square table beside his bed. Putting the mug beside it, she turned it so the handle pointed purposefully toward the pillow. Then she turned, found him watching her, and raised her eyebrows too, a quick mimic of his disbelieving expression.
“Get back into bed,” she said.