The bed I was lying in didn’t belong to me. The only feather mattress I’d ever slept on in my whole life was Carrion Swift’s, and this bed didn’t belong to that asshole, either. This bed was far bigger, for starters, and it didn’t smell like muskrat. A set of immaculate white sheets covered my body, on top of which lay a thick, woolen blanket. High overhead, the ceiling was not the pale golden color of sandstone. It was mostly white, but… no. It wasn’t white. It was a pale, washed-out blue, and there were streaks and dabs of dove-gray sporadically daubed here and there, forming clouds. It was
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