She doesn't mind at all. In fact, given her reaction, she probably wouldn't mind even if the room was still full. Blood rushing to her head, she laughs and squirms some more, making it harder for him to walk with his pants drooping that way, and almost flails as she feels her weight shift and slide back.

"Careful," she warns, tone allowing for no mistakes. Her not minding doesn't extend to being dropped on her head.

"Yes," someone adds, dryly.

Abigail's head jerks sideways and the toes of two boots come into sight. Slowly, lips twitching, her eyes travel from boots to legs to -- oh, Goddess -- to the scowling visage of her dear brother Thomas.

Her dear brother Thomas who is casually holding a pail of dirty kitchen water, as if he hasn't quite decided what to do with it.

"Throw that, brother mine, and you'll be wishin' for the Dark God by dawn," she barks.

Thomas bares his teeth in a wicked grin.