“Right,” he says. “Up you go.”
“I’m working.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Bunny, there are customers…”
“Three people, one of whom is Mrs Edwards, and she always just wants a tea and a chat.” He gives me a gentle push toward the door to the stairs. “Go. I’ll bring you something up later.”
I want to argue. I genuinely want to argue. But my head hurts and my throat hurts and the sneeze that just happened was frankly undignified, and as kind as Adam is, even he couldn’t forgive me if I sneezed in a customer’sface. And Bunny is giving me the look, the one that says he’s cheerful and kind and absolutely immovable.
“Fine,” I say, with what I feel is considerable dignity. “One hour.”
“Sure,” says Bunny, in the tone of someone who has no intention of allowing that.
I make it to the stairs. In hindsight, the stairs are more of a challenge than they should be. I’m concentrating on them, on putting one foot in front of the other, when Bunny appears behind me again and takes my arm with cheerful efficiency.
“I can walk up stairs,” I say.
“I know you can,” he says, walking up them alongside me anyway.
He gets me to the flat door. Turns the handle. Steers me through it. I’m concentrating on not tripping over, so I don’t immediately register what I’m walking into, which is a mistake, because I walk into the living room looking considerably more pathetic than I would like, and Dis sees me and the temperature in the room drops about six degrees instantly.
“Who,” says Dis, and his voice has gone very quiet in a way that means the opposite of calm, “has done this to you.”
It’s not a question. It’s a demand.
I look at him. He’s standing at the edge of the circle, those blue eyes blazing, the shadows around him moving with sudden violent purpose, and he’s looking at Bunny with an expression that suggests he’s working out how to disembowel someone without technically leaving the circle.
“Nobody did anything to me,” I say. “I have a cold.”
Dis looks at me. His gaze travels over me with the focused assessment of someone cataloguing damage. “You look wounded.”
“It’s a cold. It’s a virus. It’s completely normal and not dangerous, and I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. You are grey. Your eyes are wrong. You are leaking.”
“I’m not…” I touch my nose. “That’s just from the sneezing.”
Bunny, who has been standing beside me, taking all of this in with wide, interested eyes and his bunny ears slightly askew, raises his hand like he’s in a classroom. “He nearly sneezed on a customer,” he offers helpfully.
“Bunny,” I say.
“Sorry,” says Bunny, not looking sorry at all.
Dis’s gaze snaps back to me. “Sit down,” he says. It comes out with the full weight of several centuries of command behind it.
I stagger over to the sofa and sit down. This is partly because he’s using the voice and partly because my legs are honestly grateful for the suggestion.
“Right,” says Bunny, from the doorway, looking pleased with how this is going. “I’ll bring soup up later. Text me if you need anything.” He gives Dis a little wave. “Bye, Dis!”
“Farewell, cheerful human,” Dis says, without looking away from me.
Bunny beams. The door closes. His footsteps clatter back down the stairs with their usual enthusiasm.
Dis and I look at each other.
“It is not serious,” I say, preemptively. “Humans get colds all the time. It’s a minor upper respiratory virus. It goes away on its own in a week. Seven to ten days at most.”
