Ben woke up to the sound of Melody vomiting, which wasn't an ideal start to the day. He squinted at the shuttered windows and tried to see whether he needed to get up, or whether he could ignore the noise and go back to sleep. He didn't want to talk to her any more than he had the night before, and he certainly didn't want to crawl out of bed to go hold her hair back and play the supportive, loving husband. He'd get enough of that when they returned to England — and the thought, coupled with the noise of her retching on the couch, was nearly enough to make him want to vomit.

Was this a pregnancy thing, or was she sick? He hadn't stayed up to see whether or not she'd taken the potion last night, and he didn't know what side effects it would have or not have if she did. It could have made her sick. She could have even been dying, for all he knew. Maybe he should get up even if he didn't need to get dressed and leave just yet. He was still angry at her, but in a sort of distant, abstract way — he didn't want to actively cause her any additional pain, and he certainly wasn't ready to condemn her to dying alone in a hotel room in Paris while he gave her the cold shoulder from the bed ten feet away.

Ben pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned back on the headboard, letting the sheets pool around his bare stomach. "Are you alright?" he asked.