Plourr, on the other hand, is of the opinion that this can't possibly be it, and she still has a week before she has to deal with any of this. She is fully prepared to get down to the infirmary, walk around the corridors for a while, and then be told 'oh, no, false alarm; back to bed you go' and get bundled off to the apartments again.

It's happened a few times before, after all.

"Let us get to work?" she asks a mite crankily, eyebrows up. But she swings her legs over the side of the sofa and takes his arm, and--slowly, with a great deal of assistance--heaves herself up. Almost as soon as she's standing, her hand tightens on his bicep and she rests her forehead against his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut.