[The weather remains bitingly cold in January, and it's difficult for anyone living (or working) within the Aubel estate to not want to stay cozy and warm indoors. The same could be said for James, who -- having found a comfortable chair in a study, next to a blazing fireplace -- is seated and flipping through a book. He can feel the heat lulling him into a languid sort of nap, but he fights off the temptation to doze. It was too early yet.
Around him are bookshelves, lined with books. A great oaken desk on the other end of the room, with warm light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The smell of his father's cigar smoke lingers in the air, though the man had left the room hours ago. As considerate as ever, James muses dryly, at the thought, to a son who has asthma.
But even James is too relaxed to linger on the thought for much longer. The afternoon is too calm, too quiet, for him to care about things that might normally vex him.]
˙pǝɥɔʇǝɹʍ puɐ puoⅎ ɥʇoq sǝᴉɹoɯǝɯ
Around him are bookshelves, lined with books. A great oaken desk on the other end of the room, with warm light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The smell of his father's cigar smoke lingers in the air, though the man had left the room hours ago. As considerate as ever, James muses dryly, at the thought, to a son who has asthma.
But even James is too relaxed to linger on the thought for much longer. The afternoon is too calm, too quiet, for him to care about things that might normally vex him.]