There were few faces, even among her own family, that Maeve would have been happy opening her eyes to, but Barnabas Skeeter's was certainly not one of them. She could smell his breath—no more unpleasant than anyone else's—as he urged her back to a wakefulness she did not want, for wakefulness meant she had to acknowledge what had transpired between them. His hands were soft, those of a man who spent his entire life shuffling papers about rather than doing anything useful. Merlin, what had she done?

"G'off," she slurred, half pushing him away and half pushing herself upwards into a seating position, head still spinning.