Noel's bedroom was quiet except for the soft rustle of paper.
A single candle burned on the bedside table, its wick had grown long, curling black at the tip. The room smelled faintly of wax, ink, and the lavender soap the maids had used to wash the replaced sheets.
Noel sat cross-legged on the bed in his nightshirt... a white linen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top buttons undone. His dark hair was messy from running his fingers through it. The catalogues Rowan had brought lay scattered around him in uneven piles... more than twenty of them, thick booklets bound in plain leather or heavy card, some with embossed titles in gold leaf.
He had been at it for hours.
His eyes were heavy, stinging from lack of sleep. He yawned widely, jaw cracking, then rubbed the heel of his hand against one socket.
"Come on," he muttered. "There has to be something decent."
