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Lucrèce stayed in bed for as long as he could. As long as anyone would let him. Hidden under the covers and his eyes closed just so he could pretend he was anywhere but where he really was. In the quiet of the slave quarters, with everyone else gone, he at least felt he had the freedom to imagine that he was home. Curled up in his own bed. One of his own dogs laying at his feet. His own books lined up on the bookshelves beside his own bedframe. And he had just woken up, before opening his eyes, letting the sunshine waft over him from the open windows. There were no expectations of him, just his own thoughts and interests all neatly organized into his own space. His own. He missed his own everything, including the safety and security he had once held close to his chest.