Dominic woke to sunlight, the smell of fresh plaster, and a weight on his chest.
The weight was Wobbly. It had wrapped a curtain tassel around itself like a scarf and fallen asleep there, glowing a soft, contented violet.
The other weight was on his arm. Florence was sprawled across two thirds of the bed, one leg hooked over his, wearing the white shirt he had left on the chair the night before. It hung off one shoulder. She had also taken most of the blanket.
"Morning, Master," she mumbled into the pillow, without opening her eyes.
"That's my shirt."
"It was." She cracked one eye open, crimson and entirely unrepentant. "Now it's a shared resource."
"Shared with who?"
"Me." She stretched, and the shirt did very little to help the situation. "You looked comfortable in it. I'm just keeping it warm."
"I wasn't wearing it."
"Which is why it needed warming."
