It went on to ramble about the struggle between our divine natures and our animal selves and then turned into a rant about the iniquity of the modern age.

I only made it through a few lines before the harsh, unforgiving tone made me too uneasy, and I pushed the page away. These weren’t the words of a well-balanced mind. And sitting in a small pool of light in a strange, dark room only made me feel that more deeply. I stood up and stretched my stiff legs, then folded the piece of paper and stuck it in the pocket of my pajama pants. Because I was creeped out, I didn’t turn off the desk lamp until after I had opened the door to the hall, letting light spill in through the doorway.

Then I made my way back downstairs to check on the sheets and clothes.

In the laundry room, the dryer was silent—so soon? Was it broken? I opened the door, dreading the sight of wet sheets. But to my surprise, it was all totally dry. And not just dry, but not even hot as you’d expect from a just-finished cycle; it was all only slightly warm.

There would be time to figure that out later. I grabbed the clean linens and my pajama top and headed back up to the nursery. I opened the door quietly, keeping a careful eye on Agatha to make sure she hadn’t woken. Soon, I was safely in the small bedroom.

I made the bed and changed back into my fancy pajama top, then climbed under the covers.

As I prepared to let my eyes fall shut, I reached over and checked the time on my phone.

Suddenly I was wide awake.

It was 5:14 a.m.?

That was impossible. If it was past five o’clock, that would mean I had spent four hours in that hallway, when I was positive I’d only been there for . . . I tried to piece together the time in my head. Less than an hour for the washing machine, and how long for the dryer? Fifteen minutes?

No. Clothes don’t dry in fifteen minutes.

They certainly don’t dry and cool to room temperature in fifteen minutes.

I remembered how tempting the beds had looked. Had I napped without remembering?

Then an image came into my head—well, not a single image as much as a collection of sense memories:

The way the scrawled text seemed to swim in front of my eyes. The stiff soreness of my legs and back when I stood up to leave the bedroom . . . How long had I sat there? It felt like minutes, but if the time on my phone was correct, it had been much, much longer.