"Yes, definitely."
Anchor fetches her water, and keeps her from running off blindly into the woods.
By midnight (or at the very least by morning, if she slips into a feverish sleep), Lark's symptoms should have receded, and the uncatalyzed werecurse burned away. Everything is back to normal except that the phoenix is still poking its beak in through the flap of the tent's vestibule. Anchor is dozing, tired out, and the bone dog is watching in case anything terrible happens.