“No, you shouldn't have,” she told him, and slammed the door in his face. Fleur went over to the desk—still covered with Fancy's papers—and sparked the oil lamp alight. Turning the wick down to give her the barest illumination, she read the warrants. The flickering light as the wind gusted across the lamp's chimney and the sudden increase in rain were appropriate for her mood, and for a moment she found herself wishing that the guard who'd delivered the message would be struck by lightning on his way back to his billet. No, better that he should have been struck on his way here, she thought darkly, looking back at the bed. I have no choice but to wake him. These can't wait until tomorrow.