Arthur’s eyes opened in disbelief upon the clock beside his bed. Noon? Already? He started up, wincing as a multitude of minor aches and pains made themselves known.
Making his way furtively to the bathroom, Arthur examined his reflection in the small mirror. His lips were a little swollen, his chin somewhat reddened, from Robin’s stubble, he supposed. Unbuttoning his pyjamas—and when the devil had he put those on?—Arthur swallowed at the criss-crossing of scratches and grazes that patterned his torso.
Heart suddenly racing, he untied his pyjama trousers and examined his hips. Yes: finger-shaped bruises patterned them, the firmest evidence yet that the previous night had really happened.
So odd, though, that minor abrasions aside, such a momentous thing should leave no trace upon his fe
