I knew what that meant: it had snowed in the night. I groaned and slumped onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. But where the bed should have been behind me, cold and blank, there was a warm bulk stopping me from rolling all the way. I turned. Stig was propped up on one elbow watching me. “Morning.” “What time is it?” I asked him. “Half seven,” he said. “I’ll go and get some coffee now. I didn’t want to wake you by thrashing about like a walrus getting off a rock.” He eased himself out without lifting the covers or making any drafts, and then shuffled off across the room and out into the corridor. The cats leapt down and followed him with their tails high and waving at the ends. “You shouldn’t do that,” I called after him. “You’re always putting yourself down.” “I know,” he called back. “Oprah would have me across her knee for a good thrashing.
