Morning arrived without ceremony. Dust motes caught the light bleeding through the curtain's edge. Joseph's eyes opened.
Rayah slept beside him—flat on her back, mouth closed, blanket tucked with geometric precision. Perfect posture, even unconscious.
The past few nights she'd been curled tight, shivering through fever dreams. But now, she was sound, but still restless. Not from sickness, but something else.
He spared her half a glance before sliding from the bed. The door eased shut behind him with careful pressure. No creak.
He walked across the corridor, taking off his slippers before a door.
Cold tile met his bare feet in the washroom. Colder water met his face. He scrubbed methodically, then stepped under the shower's spray and let his mind work.
There was much for him to finish.
First: negotiate kitchen access with the inn's staff. He wanted to start cooking his own meals. To control what went into his body, both for nutrition, and possible poisoning.
