Fluttering damask curtains embrace the midnight breeze; dancing in the glow of palest moonlight and glinting stars. Mediterranean heat floods through open windows – and yet, it is not possible to stand in this room and not shiver. Perhaps it is the knowledge of what transpired. Perhaps it is the blood I am having to scrub off the floor. The floor, at least, can be cleaned; the sheets on the bed are beyond saving, perhaps they still would be even if they were not mottled with red. Perhaps if I imagine it is just a pattern – just red strawberries spotted on white cotton.