Fran's eyes opened slow, the world swimming into focus in blurred, aching fragments.
White ceiling. Soft light. The distant smell of tea steeping somewhere nearby.
He blinked twice, one more time, before a face finally resolved above him.
"Thomas?"
The old driver's weathered face broke into relief and exasperation, hands still hovering awkwardly like he'd been fussing with the blankets moments before Fran woke.
"There you are, master," Thomas said, voice thick. "Was starting to think I'd have to explain to the young misses why their father decided sleeping through a war was preferable to waking up for it."
Fran tried to sit up, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through his ribs, a hiss escaping through gritted teeth.
"Easy, easy, master." Thomas's hand pressed gently against his shoulder, guiding him back down. "You're not winning any more fights today. Not in that condition."
