Your bedroom ceiling.

Your temple is throbbing painfully, and every muscle burns. You try to recollect how you ended up here alone, but all you remember is losing consciousness next to your partner.

The answer to that question announces itself, by way of it's scraping, grating neck. "Good afternoon, Sir. Here, perhaps this will help," Grimmsby says, coming up next to you and handing you a cup of... something.

Grunting, you take it from him and, trying not to sniff at it, knock it back quickly. The taste is off-putting enough to make you want to throw up, but the results can't be argued with. You may not be in top form, but you are at least functional, mobile and most of all, not in pain. "Fuck, that is nasty," you cough, handing it back to him. "Where's, where's uh, where is she?"

"The Mistress is currently seeing her guest away, Sir," he replies, not quite getting who you were referring to. "She thought it would be best that you sleep in after your activities with them, given the cost of their new burdens. And I have the privilege to inform you," he adds, cracks forming in the rock he has for a head in the shape of a smile, "that her guest had glowing responses to their time with you yesterday."

"That's good to hear," you groan, sitting up and getting your feet off the edge of the bed. Rolling your shoulders, you twist around, trying to get some stiffness out of your back. Cracking your joints, you ask Grimmsby to get you something to wear and if there's anything to eat.

The rest of your week goes by fairly uneventfully, but you do feel a shadow around you everywhere. You eventually deduce that it's coming from Selas, who, used to hang off your shoulder and mess with you whenever she had the chance, has fallen into a sullen and reserved mood. Not being the foremost expert on female, human or not, anatomy, you are reluctant to use the dreaded "H" word to describe her, but you can't help but be concerned about it. Especially given her current condition. If you were to hazard a guess, she looks like she's somewhere in the middle of the average human woman's 2nd trimester, in as many weeks.

One night, after an almost silent dinner, and a sharp, curt dismissal from her, you approach Nanny Mara to ask her if she's upset with you somehow.