Those dark sapphire empty eyes looked at him again. Like she was trying to figure something out. Then she pounced forward and grabbed like she was picking something up from the ground near his foot. She held what ever it was like it was small, terribly terribly small and precious. And it had to be small, if it was something real, because just from the slight curl of pale fingers and slender claws it was hidden from sight. She stared at her palm, at the thing for a moment.

Then she looked up at him. "You are cold," she said, in her creepy voice. She took off the jacket and noticed the ripped sleeve. She frowned at it and cupped her hand around the ripped section, closing her eyes. When she opened her eyes and removed her hand, there was silk thread - glossy, black, fine - in a neat patch closing the rip. It looked decorative.

She then moved, fawn swift and agile, and lay the jacket over his shoulders. It felt warmer than it had when he had worn it before. A small warming spell.

The chalice was shattered, but the inner web was intact. She was shattered, not broken, all her craft, all her dark glory was still there. Just the mind behind it was no longer in proper working order.

She tilted her head at him, like a small animal or a small child looking for approval for having done a trick.