memory’s so treacherous
Chaos in the Spyglass is akin to blasphemy in a cathedral, and the massive, ringing silence in the wake of Flora's mishap is thick enough to chew. No one comes running, though. No one curses or bursts through the shelves or demands she leaves before she ruins anything else. The soft turn of pages, though, has ceased, and she'll feel that weighty sense of judgement that can only be truly achieved through the eyes of scholars and librarians. That continues for some time, before the ambient quiet picks back up again.
Only then does a figure appear around the shelf she'd been reaching for, a book in hand with his finger marking the page, his stormy eyes a little concerned as he takes in the plethora of papers, maps and other unalphabetised bedlam. Finn, unlike the majority of his life, has come here for the simple pleasure of research and reading, to while away an afternoon where October is in surgery and he has nothing to do until the evening, when he and his guitar will go to provide soft music for a nearby bar.
At least, that had been the plan, and his eyes flick up towards Flora and then back to the mess without concern or irritation. Finn looks good, these days, his soft blue shirt well-fitting and his pants neatly pressed, his crown of curls less desperately tousled than it once had been. "Would you like some help?" he asks, his rich voice barely above a whisper so as to not disturb the other scholars further.
Only then does a figure appear around the shelf she'd been reaching for, a book in hand with his finger marking the page, his stormy eyes a little concerned as he takes in the plethora of papers, maps and other unalphabetised bedlam. Finn, unlike the majority of his life, has come here for the simple pleasure of research and reading, to while away an afternoon where October is in surgery and he has nothing to do until the evening, when he and his guitar will go to provide soft music for a nearby bar.
At least, that had been the plan, and his eyes flick up towards Flora and then back to the mess without concern or irritation. Finn looks good, these days, his soft blue shirt well-fitting and his pants neatly pressed, his crown of curls less desperately tousled than it once had been. "Would you like some help?" he asks, his rich voice barely above a whisper so as to not disturb the other scholars further.
one moment you’re lost in a carnival of delights
the next, it leads you somewhere you don’t want to go
FINN
