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Morning slid into East House gently, like a cat sneaking onto a warm bed. Thin light pushed under the curtains, turned the dust into glitter, and made the river in the wall painting look almost real. The air was cool and honest. Far down the corridor, a bell tinkled once as a warden checked a latch.
John woke before the first hall bell. He always did in new places. The habit had teeth. He lay still a moment, counted four in and four out, and let the room come into focus: two beds, two trunks, one desk with a neat kit of inks and quills, one narrow wardrobe that smelled faintly of soap. On Bed A, Ray Flame snored like a wet saw. On Bed B's foot, Fizz was a small orange blanket with ears. His whiskers ticked as if he were chasing pancakes in a dream.
