Morning at last, and a pounding headache.
I'd woken at whatever time it was, and levered myself up from my rumpled bed to wash myself. (Again, not something we strictly need to do, but... old habits...)
And then I'd sat at my table, waiting for my tea to brew.
Caitlyn was on the move.
I had no idea where or for what reason, just that her location in existence was not the same as the night before.
I wondered what she was up to.
Probably buying new pencils and paper, my conscience muttered.
I flushed.
I could... probably... get back to her room and return her book.
But... part of me didn't want to. Part of me wanted to keep it and the brief contact it represented, the brief touch of something illicit and deeply, deeply private.
But I knew that would be unwise.
So I resolved to pla
