Alcuin just briefly hesitated in the doorway, the heavy oak frame pressing against his fingertips. "Thank you," he said politely, and looked around as he walked inside. The space was somehow both soothing and intimidating. He did very much appreciate the walls lined with books though.

He was again dressed in muted tones, as though trying not to draw attention to himself. He wore the same soft, dove-gray button-down that clung neatly to his slender frame, and a cream-colored cardigan loosely over it. He was carrying a black leather satchel, worn edges showing age and use, though it was impeccably clean and well-maintained. On his right ring finger there was a slim silver band.

A wrinkle on his trousers near the knee showed where he’d been gripping them too tightly in the waiting room. Each detail of his attire seemed deliberate, but underneath it all, Alcuin was close to unraveling.