The dress she's wearing likely looked lovely when she first put it on; it suffers some now for tangling around her knees, soaking cold sweat from her skin and rumpled from the second impromptu nap of this kind in perhaps as many days. (They had been feeling better, there had been things to do - the burst of productivity had lasted an hour at most.)

Benevenuta's back of the throat protest at all of this movement and noise is followed by the slight indignity of realising that the precarious situation she makes of her bodice habitually has, er, slipped.

"Adelaide," she complains, but to no particular end. Possibly just at being the person in particular to witness them.