The desk was square, dark, polished like glass upheld by delicate legs grooved and carven with assurance it occupied the center of the room.
        The morning was midway through its time and passage sat it gracefully. Light from the broad sward descending smoothly rolled by the grounds keepers tinged the high ceiling behind Esme(e) with most delicate green. Dove gray satiated corners here, there, while the carpet from Arabia captured all that remained.
    For it was Esme(e)'s room.
        1 of them.











        Still as stone she sat and did not move and did not speak whose eyes were bleak
whose mouth was firm whose face was pale.
        Esme(e)'s dark hair fell to her collar.
        Esme(e)'s strong hands were before her on the desk cupped loosely they were forgotten, their endeavors forgotten.
        Esme(e) had traveled inward.
        Sought questions for which there were no answers.
        Esme(e) raveled what was not wove and found all strength, perception, quickness
misplaced, found pillars of cognition fallen.
        Found mercy fled.