Chapter Seven
Ian woke from a fever dream. Hard blocks of white sunlight filled the room. The sheets, wet with sweat, had rucked up, wrapping themselves around his body and sticking to his overheated skin.
He remembered Laura’s face hovering above his own. She was wearing a man’s shirt, but not one he recognised and she was telling him something he couldn’t understand. Then there was a strand of unbroken recall.
He was standing by a round table full of the men Laura had been dancing with. She was sitting at their head on a huge throne. She wore the same man’s shirt. It was largely unbuttoned, offering Ian glimpses of her pert breasts and long legs, as he stood by her side. The table was laid for dinner and Ian was the waiter it seemed, pad and pen poised.
“It’s time for breakfast,” Lau
