"And did you bring some back for me?" she asks, sending him a rueful smile. "People'll start to talk."

Not that she cares. Abigail is annoyed at herself for being blinded by her worry; he's so Raph, even with the hair and body and youth.

And body.

She holds on to him, feeling the differences, the way her arm fits neatly around his waist where it was a stretch before, and frowns again. Well. This is all very odd, isn't it?

"Who's the witch that did this to you?"