Hugo woke before Lavinia and discovered that happiness did not tell him whether he was allowed to move his arm.
It had gone numb beneath her pillow. She was asleep on the other side of the bed, no longer touching him, and the predicament was entirely his own creation: at some point in the night he had stretched towards her and then remained there with an unnecessary loyalty to the position.
He withdrew it slowly. Pins and needles arrived with such conviction that he sat up.
Lavinia opened one eye.
“Are you leaving?”
“Only this position.”
“Wise. You’ve been making a face.”
She was awake now, voice low and rough with sleep. He waited until she turned fully towards him, then smiled.
“Good morning.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
She reached for his hand, looked at his exaggeratedly stiff fingers and began to laugh. He had imagined a first morning of…
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