Alexandrie accepts the basin with some alacrity, holds it in her lap gripped fiercely by the hand that is not pressed to her face, and continues her shallow erratic breathing and struggle for control while Anders speaks.

And his words? Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and her shoulders shake slightly. With her hand still over her mouth, it could easily be taken for sorrow.

“Merci.” The first expression of gratitude is quiet and hoarse. She breathes deeper, more regularly, clears her throat—the danger of her being sick having blessedly passed—and the second has actual tone to it, is accompanied by the reveal of a shaky but inarguably present smile of immense relief. “Grand merci.”