A bed, sized for someone small. A wooden desk with a chair, both scaled down. A shelf holding a dozen books with cracked spines and well-worn covers — children's stories, I realized, recognizing the illustrated covers from a cultural knowledge that Cedric's brain supplied without my asking. Popular fairy tales in Aethermere. The kind of stories you read to a little girl at bedtime.
A drawing was pinned to the wall above the desk.
I stepped closer. The paper was old — four years old, at least — and the colors had faded, but the image was clear enough. Two figures, drawn in the clumsy, earnest style of a child who was trying very hard to capture something real with inadequate tools.
A tall figure in black with violet eyes. Standing straight, arms at his sides, expression serious. Cedric.
A smaller figure beside him, holding the tall figure's hand. Green dress. Black hair. Smiling so wide that the child artist had drawn the smile as a single curved line stretching from ear to ear.
