Just’s room was on the top floor of the castle, and while small, it more than lived up to the themes of plunder and pillage introduced by the main rooms below. To his delight, it proved to be one of the corner rooms featuring a turret. The turret itself had been transformed into a writing nook, complete with antique desk, lamp, and phone. He began to unpack, laying out his kit in the marble-tiled bathroom, and folding his clothes into a beautiful old rosewood chest of drawers, on top of which rested several brochures describing the amenities of the hotel. A glossy blue tri-fold advertised the full-service spa. He ran a hand down the back of his neck. He’d badly wrenched it once subduing a high-spirited villain, and after a month of pain-filled, sleepless nights, his wife had given him a certificate for a spa massage. He’d let the certificate expire; to him there was something decadent, something un-English, about such self-indulgence.
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