No Ovary. Over at the Manor, Big Gay Chris slouches on the sun porch's wicker love seat as the Dolt applies the special Whitelighter tingly touch to the unsightly hole in his long-sleeved grey t-shirt. Saba tiptoes around the Feebs, purring, "I could heal him, Masterrr. Yourrr warrrriorrr needs his streng-t! My last masterrr will be comink back for me!" Okay, I'm already tired of typing like that, so just assume Saba's employing her appropriately wacky genie accent until told otherwise. "I think he's got it under control," Phoebe mutters, indicating the Dolt. "Good idea," Saba nods a bit obsequiously. "Save your wishes." "Did you get a good look at the demon?" the Dolt asks, and the body language coming off the two boys on the love seat is pretty amusing. The Dolt's hovering a little too close to Big Chris, taking up three-fourths of the love seat's available space in the process, and poor Chris is scrunched up all the way against his end of the thing as if desperately attempting to avoid any unnecessary contact with the loser at his side. Hee. Phoebe confirms that she does, indeed, know what the demon in question looks like, and notes that she intends to head up to the attic to abuse the Book of Shadows as soon as they're finished with the mini processing summit on the sun porch. She's also summoned Raige back to the Manor, so Raige "can keep an eye on Jinny." Big Chris, who's been rotating his now-healed shoulder around to work out the stiffness, offers the Dolt a thank you. The rude Dolt simply grimaces by way of response. Dick. "There is no need to guard me," Saba informs the Feebs. "Even if I were not bound to serve you, I would do it anyway for sparing me from Bosc." Wait. Phoebe spared her from a rabid pack of dark demonic pears? Oh, sorry. That should be "Bosk," as in Chris Carmack's unfortunately goateed older brother, whom Saba claims "was cruel, even for a demon," and she should know, as her bottle has been passed around from demonic sort to demonic sort "for centuries." "That is why I got my message to Phoebe," Saba adds, a tad too confidently. "I knew if she had my bottle, she would wish me free." The Feebs is all, "Uh-uh. No wishes. If that jackhole French Stewart taught me anything, it's that squinty-eyed, rubber-faced, overrated hack closet cases should never be allowed careers in entertainment." Or maybe Phoebe simply calls genies "tricksters" and leaves it at that.