(Written last night, but not finished. I have decided to post it regardless, as I cannot recall what I was planning to add.)
Poor Fox. She's sick. Quite sick, actually. Medieval medicine would judge her phlegmatic. I'm not sure what remedy the resident humorist (not the funny kind) would recommend. Strong tisanes and green tea help a bit, and humidity, too. We don't have a strong enough humidifier to warm and wet the outer rooms of our apartment, so we resort to a large lobster pot, full of water, set to boil slowly on the stove. It isn't the most efficient method, but it does the job. You can't ignore it, though. We've already ruined one pot on account of distraction. I think that the apartment owners wouldn't be keen on a kettle-caused fire. The weekend will be the judge for Fox' health.. If it is restored, we move on with our lives. If it isn't, then it is off to the modern physician -- who, unless pressed, will not prescribe leeches or opium. What does all of this mean for Sparrow? No sleep. Wide awake, actually, and I switched to drinking herbal tisanes hours ago. I probably shouldn't sit at the computer (all the guides tell you not to do that when you cannot sleep), but I needed to write.