Those who build walls are their own prisoners.

Ursula K. Le Guin

Piper woke slowly, in that hazy way one does on a winter weekend when one has snuggled deep into the blankets. Bright, clear sunlight bathed the room and bed in stark pale colors, washing everything out and making it feel surreal.

She blinked and studied the bed hangings and the dying fire in the fireplace. Where was she? Bit by bit, memories of last night came back to her. She winced as ...