Place: Some Golden Space

[professeurdeloi]

When he'd found the set of rooms, he hadn't been thinking of anything in particular, that he was aware of. But the resemblance of them to his college rooms in the year he had spent at Cambridge was striking enough that he had occupied them almost at a whim.

The main door is heavy and slightly too low for modern comfort. It opens onto a room that is high-ceilinged and grand; large, but not too large to lose its cosiness. The walls are panelled, the wooden floor varnished and mostly bare, the ceiling painted plain white. On the wall, opposite the door, there's a tall, arched window that reaches almost to the ceiling, heavy burgundy tapestry drapes pulled back, to reveal a snowy scene. There's a cushioned window seat at its base, and it always seems to be winter outside.

The wall to the left of the window houses the centrepiece of the room - a large, tall stone fireplace with a small fire in the grate that is lit most of the time - a pile of small logs stacked on the hearth beside it. There is a large mirror over the mantlepiece and  a small wooden carving of a green man propped up against a few leatherbound books of poetry. In front is a deep rug, an armchair, a small low table and a large leather sofa. The latter has a grey wool blanket thrown over it and a few cushions piled up against one arm.

Either side of the fireplace are heavy oak doors. One leads to a surprisingly modern bathroom and the other to a small study, lined with bookshelves and with an antique oak desk under the small, deep window - which also looks out on the same scene as its larger counterpart. On the desk are papers, a fountain pen, and a small laptop.

To the right of the window in the main room is a large wooden bedstead - the bed itself neatly made with a feather comforter and white sheets, a cover matching the burgundy of the curtains folded partly back over those. On one side is a nightstand, on the other, a rug and the doors of a small walk-in closet. On the nightstand is a small  vase containing three dark pink, heavily scented roses.

On the same wall as the door is a bookcase and a long, low cupboard that houses some crockery and a small, built in refrigerator. On the counter top is an electric kettle and yesterday's copy of Le Monde. It is always there, and always the most recent copy. He has given up trying to understand how it happens.

The bookcase is filled with a mixture of law, history, philosophy and poetry books - some were here when he arrived, and some he has borrowed from the libraries he has found here. There is also a small stereo and a selection of CDs.

There are no personal belongings, save for the books and CDs, and a few things he has been given since he arrived. Woodsmoke, floor polish, coffee and tobacco mingle with the scent of the roses and the air in here is always slightly cool, as if winter is encroaching from the view outside.

"Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I'll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
Musing upon them..."  - Rupert Brooke

Comments

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He settles back into the corner of the sofa in an attempt to appear relaxed, but he's aware that the tension he is willing out of his face and body is concentrated in the hands that are clasped tightly in his lap. He looks down at them, a slight frown, before looking up again, his voice quiet.*

Klavier, I...

*But the sudden look of concentration on Klavier's face cuts off his words and makes him turn his head to follow that look out of the window. He glances back at the boy with some surprise as the green shoots appear among the snowdrops in the courtyard, then suddenly blossom into small yellow flowers.

His eyes meet Klavier's for a moment when he names the flowers and then he looks out at them again, his expression thoughtful.*

No, I did not know that.

I wonder then, Klavier, is that a wish, or an instruction?

*And there's a long look at Klavier then, the longest that he has managed to look at the boy directly since it happened. There's no trace of the bruises or the cuts now - nothing, really, save for the mending fingers, to remind him of that dungeon or how they had found Klavier. And yet he knows that he would only have to close his eyes and he would still smell it and see it and feel it as if it were yesterday.

He doubts that Klavier is ever free from it for a moment, despite his cheerful exterior.*

Then I shall bow to the opinion of Fraulein Doctor - she seems to be a very... capable woman.

*And there's a glance to the side and a small smile at that, the fact that she also bore a passing resemblance to the older Ema Skyes having not escaped his attention during his visits.*

I am always ready to hear you play, Klavier, whether it be a new song or old.

[rockinglawyer.livejournal.com]

[ He knows-- he knows there's tension, that there's guilt on Edgeworth's end. That he's hesitant and worried about what has happened with him. That his own older alternate will now have this as a part of his history. At Edgeworth's first comment, Klavier can't help but grin, nodding his head. ]

Come on, Herr Professor. I bet you can tell already, ja?

[ He winks at him, plucking a string with the plectrum, and then tilting his head over at him ]

Everything turns out better when it can be smiled at. Don't look like the world's come crashing down around you.

[ And then he turns to look at his guitar, smiling at the words about the Fraulein Doctor, and then, he allows himself to inhale softly, closing his eyes, before he re-opens them. ]

It won't do well for my song, ja?

[ And he readies himself as he whispers ]

This one is called "Wandering Away From The Core"

[ And he begins to play (http://www.box.net/shared/static/h4levrm4lo.mp3)... ]