Oh, he'd really gone and done it now. She was giving him the full healer interrogation suite. He wouldn't have been in the least surprised if she had pulled out some sort of intake paperwork for the hospital from the pocket of her robe, had his answers been alarming enough. Check him in for long term care right here at the breakfast table.

"I'm fine. I mean, I did," he admitted, about the chocolates. He didn't think there was much point in denying it, because he might have mentioned it to one of his siblings already (— but then again, maybe it had been Lottie that he'd mentioned it to, and if that was the case he might as well have lied about it because she had almost certainly forgotten it by now. It had been two weeks and the original anecdote contains no dramatic declarations of love or overblown death scenes; how could she be expected to have found it at all interesting?)

"But I'm not sick," he continued, trying to placate her. One of the servants, presently engaged in replacing the partially depleted coffee pot in the center of the table with a fresh one, and whom had stumbled upon Don Juan yesterday having a very bad time of things indeed, made a face. Don Juan saw it and shifted in his chair defensively. He'd chosen the word because he knew she worked in magical bugs and had been trying to dodge out of her area of professional responsibility, but hadn't considered that he was surrounded by people who might have evidence to suggest he was lying. "I'm not sick," he insisted, more to the servant now than to Miss Jennings.

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