[West Wing - Morning]
The bed was the best he had slept in.
He registered it before he was fully awake—the mattress supporting his weight evenly, the sheets smooth against his skin, the pillow set at a height that hadn't required adjustment. At Blackstone Keep he had slept on a standard-issue military cot and woken each morning with his feet pressed against the footboard. Here the frame was long enough. The blanket was heavy without being stiff.
He lay still, assessing the ceiling.
The ceiling was stone, plastered smooth, with a single beam running its width. Morning light cut through the gap in the curtains at an angle that placed the hour just past six.
He sat up.
A knock at the door. Measured. Unhurried.
"Enter."
The steward from the previous evening came in—an older man, precise in his movements, carrying a garment across both forearms as though it might crease at a touch.
