(no subject)

[misericord]

Cordy is in the library. Whatever may go on in the main room, or the kitchen, or -- God knows he doesn't ask -- the bedrooms upstairs, the library is usually quiet, and even nearly normal. Like any other room in a Mansion it's far grander than he's accustomed to, but that's quickly overcome. He's been working his way through the debatably finite collection -- not systematically, which would imply some sort of order, but certainly diligently.

At the moment he's ensconced near the window, with a book open on the arm of the enormous chair: a slight, drab, earnest figure.