*Closing won't be for another half hour or so, but the last actual customer exited Craven & Stone over twenty minutes ago, after a bout of prolonged browsing. Dorcas is well-accustomed to the slow days at the shop. She makes an effort to give the owners a bit of time off whenever she's in London for more than a week in a row.
Not one to put her energy to waste, Dorcas has buried herself in the stacks, dedicated to putting them in some semblance of order. The organization of most of the shop is hardly intuitive--and that's being kind. Though she has a feeling it's futile, she's been doggedly attacking the 15th Century for the better half of the afternoon. Dorcas is in the process of levitating a stack of manuscripts onto an empty shelf, when the bell above the door gives a chime and she hears a voice call her name.*
*Winding through the stacks almost feels useless. The annoying voice of Alice's self-containment is practically yelling for to just deal with this all on her own. After about a minute of half-hearted searching, Alice almost gives into it, until she rounds a corner and finds Dorcas.*
*The manuscripts land on the shelf with a dull thud, upsetting a large cloud of dust. It's only years of exposure and experience that prevents Dorcas from launching into a full-on sneezing fit. Instead, it's a brief spell of coughing and then onto the next stack. She can hear whoever the voice belongs to heading vaguely in her direction. She doesn't pay it too much notice until the steps are almost upon her--Alastor would rap her on the knuckles if he could see this--and then finally turns around, almost upsetting a pile of tomes to her left in the process.*
A case, actually. Someone I've arrested is claiming they never murdered, but a cursed book called The Beast of Bodmin did. Swears that there's a hallmark to this book - something like one hundred made, all with the same curse, author by the name of Demesne. Have you heard of it?
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Not one to put her energy to waste, Dorcas has buried herself in the stacks, dedicated to putting them in some semblance of order. The organization of most of the shop is hardly intuitive--and that's being kind. Though she has a feeling it's futile, she's been doggedly attacking the 15th Century for the better half of the afternoon. Dorcas is in the process of levitating a stack of manuscripts onto an empty shelf, when the bell above the door gives a chime and she hears a voice call her name.*
Back here, if you can find me!
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...evening.
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Alice! What brings you here?
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