I found Minerva in her bedroom, struggling to open a locked wooden box. She wore a white blouse and a long skirt of faded purple. Her hair had been braided, but several strands had fallen loose and now wisped in the air around her face. She was focused, beautiful eyes narrowed and elegant jaw set firmly forward in frustration.

I leaned against the doorway, allowing myself a moment to admire her.

"Would you like a hand?" I asked.

Minerva looked over at me, her eyes softening ...