“I’m going to organize this,” I said. “It’s going to take months. Maybe years. But I’m going to put every single book in a system that makes sense.”
“You do not have to.”
“I know. I want to.” I pulled a book off a lower shelf. Heavy, leather-bound, illustrations on thick pages. “I need supplies. Paper, ink, something to write on. And I’ll need you to tell me which languages you can read so I know how to sort them.”
“I will get them.”
He left. I started examining the shelves, trying to understand the scope of the chaos, and before I’d finished a single wall he was back.
Paper. Ink. A lap desk. Three different pens.
“Is this sufficient?”
“Yes, but I didn’t need three different pens.”
He was already gone.
He came back with cushions. Two of them, silk-covered, deep blue.
“For the chair,” he said. “The wood is hard.”
“Tavrin, I don’t?—”
Gone again.
A blanket. Wool, thick, the color of storm clouds.
“The stone floor is cold. You will want this.”
“I’m not cold.”
He draped it over the chair anyway and disappeared.
A pitcher of water. A cup. A plate of food I hadn’t asked for.
I watched him arrange them on the small table he’d brought three trips ago. His movements were careful. Precise. That same rigid exactness I’d seen in the breakfast tray.
“You don’t have to keep bringing me things.”
“I know.” He straightened. Looked at the arrangement. Adjusted the cup slightly. “I will return.”
“Tavrin.”
He stopped in the doorway.
“I mean it. Stop bringing things.”
He stood very still. I watched his hands open and close at his sides. Watched his shoulders tighten. Watched something ripple across his face that looked almost like pain.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
He left.
I went back to work. I told myself I was relieved. Told myself the constant interruptions had been breaking my concentration. Told myself this was better.
Twenty minutes later I heard movement in the doorway.
He was standing there with a footstool in his hands. His expression was somewhere between apologetic and anguished.
