"Of course it's mine," he sulked. "And if this is yours," he kept on sulking and tossed the wig across the contested space between them, "then I suppose the rest of this mess also belongs to you. Christ."

He brushed invisible wig-cooties off his eagle's brow. If he was being honest with her and himself, he'd clarify that the eagle wasn't really his. Technically, it belonged to the crown.