For two days, I slept in short but heavy bursts. Another woman, a blonde with pursed lips and precise movements, brought mugs of broth and plates of buttery, crumbling muffins. In the morning, I woke to music playing, not too near but clear enough for me to hear. Next, the sound of birds and the warm breeze of an open window, a precious luxury. During the night, a low and gentle voice—the minotaur—recited poetry from outside of the cracked bedroom door.
