Mikhailis tugged the rumpled bedsheet over one ankle, then pushed it away again with an impatient twitch. The linen felt suddenly scratchy, as if woven from second-rate hemp instead of palace cotton. He shifted to one elbow, squinting at the pen twirling between his fingers. The polished brass barrel flashed in the lamplight—one-two-three revolutions, a clumsy skip, then the nib clicked harmlessly against his thumbnail.
Stop fidgeting, he scolded himself, but the pen kept spinning, gathering speed with every restless thought.
