Westley awoke, startled. A sickly, milky light strained through the windows, curdled like early-stage cheese. It took a moment, as he found most often the case when sleeping abroad, to reacquaint himself with the gloaming room. The small, dark bedchamber was simple, yet luxurious compared to the rooms his scholar’s stipend usually allowed; with layered bedclothes and dusky hangings. As his brain became used to the shadows, a wave of remembering washed past his fogged eyes. Rousing his slight legs beneath a tangled nightshirt, he ran a knuckled hand across his clammy torso, straining against the weight of stranger-stained linens. A trembling toe stretched into the outside chill, as he creakily eased himself onto the pads of bare feet, and pressed against the thickly varnished boards below. Stumbling, he emptied his dawn-taut bladder into a yellowing chamber pot with great relief. He grasped for his scattered breeches, shirt and boots, smudged a damp cloth about his face and pushed wisps of hair back into a loose tie; austere, wig-less and naked. Reaching to open the window drapes, he sheepishly announced his presence to the square below. Bustle and light shot upwards. Dazzled, taking a step back, he finished his...