Poppet throws a spanner between those turning wheels and she pulls a face, turning it against her pillow. "I have things to do," she complains, but the way her brows pinch in when she closes her eyes speaks for itself; her head aches and she's tired, overheated and liable to handle her duties about as well as Husband would, in the immediate moment.

Husband, for what its worth, has lain down at the end of her bed, disconsolate.