Standing at the window, reading the menu of Obediah’s services, the Minotaur wishes he could believe in what she has to offer: a promise woven into deep lines of his palm, some turn of fate...

The architecture of the Minotaur’s heart is ancient. Rough hewn and many chambered, his heart is a plodding laborious thing, built for churning through the millennia. But the blood it pumps—the blood it has pumped...

Cecie keeps telling him she’d like to take him home some night, husband or no. The Minotaur waits hopefully. Husband or no.