Ever since her encounter with Everil, Sibyla had felt her strength slipping away from her and with it, her health. In the past days, she had gone from bad to worse, all the while hoping that her usually strong constitution would pull her through so she wouldn't have to see the one person she would rather avoid.
Sibyla knew when she had desperately tried to conjure a fire in a fit of feverish chill and instead slicked the fireplace in a sheet of ice that whatever illness she had was beyond rest and hot tea and soup; she needed to see a Healer. She couldn't get work if she was sick and she couldn't afford to stay without work and it was becoming clear that this alarming flu wasn't going anywhere on its own.
It was that knowledge that had driven her from her bed, determined to acquire something hot to eat to bolster her strength to face the one person she was barely strong enough to face even on her strongest day. It seemed, though, that fate had other plans, though, for when Sibyla practically stumbled into the common room, she didn't have to look far to find exactly the one she sought. But, bizarrely, she almost failed to recognize him at first, bundled as he was in a cloak, huddled and pale. Still, Sibyla imagined she would know him anywhere, even still, even though he looked, to her eyes, as utterly awful as she felt.
Seeing him in that state momentarily confused Sibyla and she began to question whether she even wanted to face him. In that state, it seemed as though he wouldn't be much use to her, certainly not worth the discomfort of facing him, particularly as sick as she was feeling. Still, there wasn't exactly another option and he might have at least some insight as to what was going on. As much as she hated to admit it, he was good at what he did.
"I see you are in no better state than I," she finally managed to say, her voice sounding disappointingly weak despite her best efforts. In fact, at the rate she was going she wasn't entirely certain she would be able to remain standing much longer than she was.