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There was little time for Clurie Clemmings to swallow the painful dose of reality he was given by the sudden turn of events at hand. They were to be moving to Anica. Despite all of Yizhaq's precautions and promises of safety, there just wasn't enough palpable safety within the walls of his estate for those bound with Plagues. Grimms were in trouble, those who were struck ill more palpably slow. There were already a few that had miraculously lasted with the Plague for only a day, but for Georgie and Chauhn Clemmings, they were heading all the further into the darkness of the disease. They were both still together in their shared room, coughing up all manners of blood and bile, and running a fever so hot that even Clurie winced away from the mere touch of it. But they needed to move. There was no waiting for the Grimms in Lord Yizhaq's estate. Travel was scheduled to begin the morning of the next day, and there was still much to be done for the two sickly Grimms.

Skipping about in the halls with a speed granted to him only because of the humanistic form granted to him in tandem with his Grimm's illness, Clurie rushed to gather heavier clothes for Georgie and Chauhn. It would be a cold and difficult journey to Anica with the boys in the state that they were in, but it needed to be done. Heavier clothes would be needed to wrap them in defense of the last of winter's storms. Heavier clothes would be needed for him as well. His human form was able to take the cold with much more ease than the body of an ash-based Plague, but he was still prone to it all the same. Clurie shivered as he ran through the hallways, searching for the servant's closets.

How was it that he got so lost in the mansion anyways?

Clurie stopped for a moment against the wall, his green eyes looking around with baleful confusion at the hallways that looked so similar to every other hallway. He was thinking too much. He didn't pay attention to where he was going at all, too busy in randomly taking turns according to the feelings festering in his chest whenever he thought of his Grimm. He was still running from those memories, reminded of them whenever he thought of the similarity he shared now with the Clemming's boy.

When would this nightmare end?

Clurie was no stranger to taking orders from the higher up, but in this case, Clurie had to take many more moments than necessary to comprehend the order. After he slunk into the room, wary of the unfamiliar and yet familiar voice, Clurie stood like a piece of furniture to the side of the door, his soft boy hands curled up near his chest and his green eyes wide and staring at the, admittedly, gorgeous woman standing just a hop and a skip's breadth away from him. He gulped.

After all the time he spent frolicking about in the corridors of the mansion, running errands or delivering messages, laundry, blankets, food, and medicine, he had come to meet almost every face there was to be seen in Lord Yizhaq's estate. Never before, though, had he seen this lady. He was sure of it. There was no false stitch in his memory, no doubt about it. He had not seen her before. Clurie would remember this woman, he was sure of it. She was beautiful. Still standing transfixed, it took him until the lady's lavender eyes leaned into irritation for the once-Plague to realize that he had been spoken to, and that there was an order placed upon him. He still wasn't sure what she was asking. Clurie tried to back track, flailing suddenly as he glanced backward at the door, down to his feet, up at the lady, back down to his feet, back at the lady's too large shirt, down at her bare legs underneath, back to the rest of the body upon which the shirt hung, up to her eyes, quickly back down to his feet, and up to her eyes again with a flustered pinch of his brows.

He spoke. Or rather, he tried to. His voice, for some reason, fainted whenever he tried to use it, and it took a wring of his hands, and a rub at his cheeks, for him to finally speak again. "Pardon, miss?" he rasped, "Which lord?" There were many men in the mansion, and Clurie addressed them all as 'mi'lord'. It was what he was taught. Manners, Chauhn had insisted, were the first lesson in being a page. This was the only logic that Clurie listened to from Chauhn, and only because before he earned himself some trouble by calling a higher up "mister". His lady thought that it was cute, but the "mister" thought it deserved a curt back hand to the side of Clurie's head.

He paused again, distracted by the shape of her ankles, before he looked up with a blatant question mark imprinted in the wrinkles of his face. "Me too?" So he was slow on the uptake. Who could blame him? There was a lady in a slightly see through man's shirt, and only that shirt, standing before him, "Me too, what? Wait. How did you know my name? You know me, miss?"

Gulping, Clurie stared again, helpless as the woman before him moved in such miniscule familiar ways. And ways that were also entirely unfamiliar. The plague didn't realize that women had moved in such ways before. His eyes were lost somewhere underneath her chin, so when Hayat sighed and closed her eyes, Clurie had to quickly glance up to catch the tail end of the all too familiar expression. His eyes widened then, exposing the green of the Clemmings' bloodline, and then his face flexed compulsively between a gape of surprise, a wail of joy, and a gasp of completely embarrassed horror. Instead of struggling to keep one expression, Clurie released a bout of laughter, which, at the same time, sounded like a sob.

"Hayat!! Aw, health, I didn't recognize you at'all!" he quipped, taking off his hat to wring it worriedly between his hands, "You too, huh? It's a horrible thing it is. Though, uh...Not so horrible for you, I mean...I'll...Uh...You are very pretty, Hayat." Oh, health and living, why did he say that. Inwardly, Clurie imagined himself slamming his fingers in the door. That was dumb to do! Dumb, dumb, dumb! He couldn't hide the red blush that was burning underneath his eyes now, and he had a hard time trying to find a place on Hayat to look. He didn't want to look at her deep purple eyes, not with the shame that he felt prickling at the back of his neck, and neither did he want to look at her feet because he knew that eventually his eyes would drift northwards. He settled for looking to the side until he was given his task. With an eager nod, entirely forgetting his task of finding extra clothes and blankets for his Grimm and Georgie, Clurie slapped the hat back onto his head, pulled it over his forehead, and tripped on his way to the door.

"Uh! Sure, Hayat! Sure! I'll get his clothes for you!" he said, his voice giving a boyish crack. He squeezed himself out of a door he couldn't entirely open. When did doors get so hard to operate anyways?

It took Clurie a whole fifteen minutes to navigate the labyrinthine passages of the mansion, and another five minutes to dodge into Lord Hayat's room, find his clothes, and pull free all the essential clothes that he could think of, which was hard to do when all he could imagine was the lit up spaces in between the large shirt she was wearing and the dark shape of her underneath. Biting his lip, Clurie distracted himself from those thoughts and pulled free a pair of Yizhaq's undergarments that immediately made Clurie glow red again. He was sure that Chauhn was rolling in his bed with shame somewhere, agog at Clurie. He was holding a pair of Yizhaq's underpants, for health's sake! Clurie folded it between the pants and shirts and overcoat he had gotten, and quivered as he tried to stand up. He had to get out of there before someone questioned what the young boy was doing there in the first place. Clurie held up the clothes in his arms and booked it, stumbling over his feet along the way.

He almost forgot which room it was that Hayat was in, but thanks to the heightened awareness of being embarrassed, Clurie knew exactly which door he was nervous to enter. But at the same time, he was about to get on Hayat's good side! He had done her a favor, and she would be proud of him, of that he was sure. Another chance to make her think highly of him. Clurie shouldered open the door and pressed his way inside, flipping himself so he could close the door behind him. With a small smile on his face, pinned up into his red cheeks, Clurie hurried forward with his arms bundled up underneath Yizhaq's clothes.

"Here, Hayat, here!" he said grandly, before bashfully also pulling out a dress he had picked out. It must have been the Lord's wife's dress. "I didn't know which clothes you wanted, so I brought these and this dress that looks like lavender," he said helpfully, holding up the clothes for her. They made him look like he were smaller, the big bundle of garments.