By the time the pale light slipped past the curtains, the palace was already stirring. Someone was moving through the sitting room; there was the muted clink of glass and the rustle of fabric, and Chris knew, even before the door opened, that his brief peace had ended.
"Up," Rowan said, voice too brisk for the hour. "We're late."
Chris groaned into the pillow. "You're early."
"Technically true," Rowan said, unimpressed. "Now move." The curtains were drawn wider, flooding the room with gold. Chris hissed like a vampire and rolled onto his stomach.
"Go away."
Rowan sighed, long-suffering. "You're due in the clinic wing in forty minutes. Shower, dress, and for the love of everything, don't faint halfway there."
