It’s just like Aqua — just like both of them, really — to jump right into action once she’s made up her mind, without wasting a moment. There’s no time like the present, after all, and there’s literally no reason to put it off: Brig’s room is still mostly bare, since all of her clunkier equipment and notes are down at Tony’s forge now. (Her forge. Her smithy.)

So she catches her friend’s hand and surges to her feet, re-energised filled with a second wind from the decision. She’d been so picky about who she might live with, but this? This works.

“I don’t even own that many things — it’s mostly my clothes and a couple notebooks I got from Reeve. I could go right now.”

So she leads the way, bounding up the steps to room eleven, and they start ransacking it together: stuffing things into their standard-issue backpacks, stripping the linen to leave the room neat and empty for the next occupant. It feels like a sleepover, like a slumber party; she’s suddenly giddy at the prospect. “Just so you know, I’m not a very good chef,” Brigitte warns while they fold up her blanket, “but I’m learning.”