In reply, some low murmuring noise resolves sideways into, "If she tries jumping into this bed, I'll pitch you both out of it."

No magic cats where they've just seen to diplomatically furthering the war effort.

With a last rasp of nails, the long hand at the back of his neck slithers free and Fitcher moves to extricate her edges out from under him. She's not too tired to do it. Only slow and grudging—pleasantly bedraggled with her thick hair still damp and loose about the shoulders and in how she shrugs back into the damask housecoat but doesn't bother to cinch it. She's steady on her feet as she crosses to open the door.