If it weren’t for the flickering candlelight scattered about desks and nightstands or hanging from ornate glass lanterns, your sight would be restricted to the sheer, black silk canopy of Donatello’s bed.

Settled on sheets far older and more luxurious than the iron anklets the mutant turtle had…..say gifted….you upon your first night in his home, the scratch of pen to paper only gave auditory hints to where the turtle lurked in the room.

He’s not in the bath, the chimes of his clock would easily spur him to the ceramic and glass room. Nor is he lounging about near the fire, the crackling flames would plaster his figure across the floor.

So…

That leaves…

“Your eye seems to become keener and keener each passing day, dearest…”

Right in front of you.

“Mine. All mine. Safe, sheltered, and all mine.”

Firelight barely lit the soft shell’s action of depositing his notebook and quill on a shelf, and strolling to his bed.

“Recount to me, little starshine, your day. Nothing you could ever say would bore me.”