Madame Chen's voice has sunk to a creaky murmur again, and one bony hand reaches out to pick up the stopper from where it lies on the table. She holds it poised, hovering just over the mouth of the little bottle, and with the last few syllables she pushes the stopper in.

Her hand flicks up again almost immediately, in a warning gesture, as though to remind him not to move yet; the bottle is still glowing.

Slowly, slowly, the glow fades. She sinks back into her chair, seeming almost to shrink, to diminish back into a frail old woman.