If I’d known that I’d have half the household in my room, I’d have made my bed that morning with a plainer throw. Something in a sober tweed, maybe. Or a stout plaid from the western clans my mother hailed from. But I’d had no inkling when I set out that morning that anyone, let alone someone as overpoweringly male as Magnus would be in my room, judging it and me. So there were many, many pillows. And the bedspread was satin. It wasn’t pink. But it was a lovely rosy apricot. It was pink-adjacent.
