Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

warmth formed a cushion between them; wylla recoiled, and her breath assumed that of a person beset by nervous energy. he frowned, refusing to move down along their path while his practiced healer's eye swept her small wary form.
was it illness? mahler lifted his head, a grimness chasing away the earlier sensation of chastisement. her scent was not chased by the sour bouquet of phlegm, nor the sickly-sweet fragrance carried by infection — she seemed hale in all ways save for this one.
it did not occur to the gargoyle that wylla was embarassed; he simply could not conceive of a situation in which she would act so terribly guilted. and so he threw upon the mantle of doktor, an intelligent beast with a man's blindness. 
"vylla," mahler muttered, wondering vaguely why his own heart had begun a quicker cadence in response to that beating in her chest, but then the words were lost when he brought his gaze to seek her own.
what herb for this, then?