"But we just got the chair in the right spot—"
"Too exposed. Too many windows." His shadows are agitated again. "My private study. Floor above this one. No guild members."
"Your study?" I gather my supplies. "You mean your actual personal space? Where you do your... shadow things?"
"Where I work. Alone." He emphasizes the last word. "There's one window. North-facing."
"Oh. Well that's perfect then." I'm already moving, bags bumping against my legs. "Lead the way. Unless we're shadow-traveling? My turnips are still recovering."
"We'll walk."
He takes a route I haven't seen—narrower stairs, older. Probably servant passages once. I have to turn sideways at one landing, holding my breath as my chest brushes the wall. Everything smells like old wood and secrets.
"Do you often bring people up here?" I ask his back.
"Never."
"Oh." That probably should worry me more. "Well, I promise not to touch anything deadly. Or read any secret documents. Or rearrange your furniture. Much."
He stops at a heavy door, produces a key. The lock clicks with quality mechanisms. Inside is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at all.
It's... organized. Brutally organized. Bookshelves lined with ledgers, all spine-perfect. A desk that's seen better decades but polished to spite time. One window, as promised, currently blocked by curtains thick enough to stop arrows. No personal items. Not even a sad plant. Just weaponry displayed where other people display family portraits.
"This is depressing," falls out before I can stop it.
"This is functional."
"Functionally depressing." I set down my bags. "When's the last time you opened those curtains?"
"Light compromises security."
"Light compromises vitamin D deficiency." I march over, yank the curtains apart. Dust billows. We both cough. "Oh. Oh that's... when did you last clean these?"
"I don't clean curtains."
"Clearly." I wave away dust clouds, squinting at the sudden brightness. Perfect light though. Filtered through old glass and atmospheric dirt. "We might die from spore inhalation but at least we'll die well-lit."
He's glowering at the open curtains. "Someone could see in."
"Who? Pigeons? You're several floors up." I'm already rearranging, pulling a chair into the light. His chair, from behind his desk. The leather's worn soft where he sits. "Here. Much better than that wooden torture device downstairs."
"That's my—"
"Chair, yes. And you're going to sit in it. In the light. Like someone who isn't allergic to sunlight." I dust off the seat with my sleeve. "Come on. Before your shadows get ideas."
He sits like it's physically painful. All that careful control costs something.
"I feel exposed."
"You feel lit. There's a difference." I'm setting up my easel, trying to find the right angle. Have to squeeze between his chair and a weapons rack. My hip bumps a sword hilt. "Sorry. Didn't mean to jostle your... is that a femur?"
"Decorative."
"Right. Of course. Decorative bones. Very normal." I adjust my position. "Could you turn slightly left? Your right. No, that's too much. Just... here."
I reach out to adjust his shoulder and he catches my wrist. Not hard, but firm. His fingers are cold.
"Ask first."
