You can only shop for them.—Yeoman Daniel Vik Kendi Weaver woke with a small start and wondered where he was. The walls and ceiling were white plaster and they smelled of fresh paint. There were no high beams above him, and his pillow wasn’t filled with— Memory returned in a rush. Mother Ara. Bellerophon. The monastery. His room. His room. Kendi had never had his own room, not in the tiny apartment back in Sydney and certainly not on Mistress Blanc’s farm. He sat up. His window faced east, and the sky outside, barely visible between the tree branches, was just beginning to lighten. The cool morning air was scented with damp summer leaves and carried only a fraction of the breath-stopping humidity he had hated back on the farm. Kendi stretched luxuriously, and his skin slid over smooth white sheets instead of a rough pallet cover. The room was, he supposed, fairly small by most standards, barely five meters by three. It contained only a bed, night stand, desk, chair, and wardrobe.
