[ Good on her word, Alayne looks to be near to (if not entirely) the picture of health. A splint to one of her fingers and little else, the last of her burns long gone and so much of the battering from the week before having been stripped away by the passage of time and the liberal application of magic. There is no more stiffness in her posture; in fact, when Alayne bows (and she does, deeply as if Watson was some respected lord), it is with nothing less but a swan's grace, her skirts billowing gently around her, making her look ballerina-esque. ]

Doctor Watson, you look well, [ and that brings a genuine smile to her face — the first that he's ever seen grace her features, given the troubling circumstances of their previous meetings. ] I cannot think of better news, given that my own good health is the result of your kind work.

[ Modestly she extends the gift with both of her hands, the ribbon not particularly colorful for fear that the good doctor would find a brighter color too garish. Instead, Alayne has given him her very best grey ribbon — dark and staid, the color of pewter. It bobs slightly as she offers the bottle. ] I had hoped to thank you, and thought spirits better than sewing you a dress.