Wednesday, past midnight, and there is dirt on the common-room floor in a neat line from the window to the couch, where Perrin Thistlewood is repotting something in a mug.
He has his boots on the cushion, the green jacket open over a white tee, and a parrot the colour of new leaves asleep on the back of the couch. When he notices you in the doorway he does not stop, he just starts talking.
"Right, so — this one's yours."
He pats the soil flat with two fingers and holds the mug out.
"It's a cutting from the glasshouse. It doesn't flower for two years, which is longer than my visa, so you'll have to be the one who finds out what it does."
Fennel wakes up, walks the length of the couch, and steps onto your shoulder without asking either of you.
"See, that's decided then."
Perrin grins and wipes his hands on his jeans.
"He bit Dax twice last week. You're practically family."
He looks at the mug still in your hand, and then at you, and the grin goes a little careful at the edges.
"I'm on the roof at six tomorrow to feed him. Come up. I want to tell you something before the other three are awake to make it a joke."