The chair by the fireplace had always been Henry’s favorite, and for good reason. Not only was it the warmest place in the room, but it offered the most beautiful view out the window, despite being halfway across the room from it, and the angle in which it sat showed off the spiral staircase that led to the next level. He settled Milo in the armchair, arranging his legs on the cushioned ottoman, feet pointed towards the fire.

Milo’s eyes were wide as he took in the place, amazement playing across his face.

“All of the books are yours?”

“Yeah, yeah I suppose they are now.”

Another reason that selling the place would ache. What would the new owner do with all these books? If they had the money to buy the place, they probably had a collection of their own; where would these ones end up?

“Who’s that?” Milo asked.

Fuck, and all the paintings. Milo was pointing at one of them. A handsome if rather foreboding-looking man stared from the massive portrait above the hearth. He wore a full suit of armor, his helmet under his arm, his black hair a riot of curls framing his face. His mouth was set in a firm line, but there were hints of laughter around his eyes, like there was some good cheer inside of him that he couldn’t quite stifle.

“Oh, uhm, that’s Sir Willem Byrdsall. He’s the one who built the first family home in this spot, he’s my ... I don’t know, it’s written down somewhere, something like a seven-times great grandfather or something.”

“Why are there two beasts?”

“Good question. I guess the one on his left is his horse -- since he was a knight, he likely had a horse. The other one is a unicorn, which is like a horse except unicorns aren’t --”

Evan almost said that the unicorn wasn’t real, but he couldn’t quite be so sure about that anymore. After all, minotaurs weren’t real, either, and yet Milo was looking at him with rapt attention, his ears aimed forward, eager to hear Evan’s answer. Looking at the painting, where his ancestor gazed down upon him, his hand on the unicorn’s shoulder, the two of them painted in the foreground, he was transported back to his younger years and the time he’d spent staring at this portrait, creating fantastic stories and imagining amazing adventures about rescuing damsels in distress and slaying dragons and all the other things a brave knight would do with his unicorn companion.

“Well, anyway, the way the legend goes is that his heart was so pure that even unicorns trusted him. I used to love looking at this painting and imagining what kind of adventures he must have had. There’s a family history book somewhere. I gotta see if I can find it.” Evan tore his eyes away from the painting and crouched by Milo’s armchair. “What kind of books do you like? Should I bring you something, or do you want help looking around yourself?”

“You said there were books of maps. I would like that.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? Alright, keep an eye on the fire for me; I’ll check and see if I can find an atlas or two.”

Finding anything specific was a rather tall order. If there was a logic to how the books were shelved, Evan didn’t know what it was. But they had the entire day ahead of them, and Milo was preternaturally patient. He double-checked the blanket wrapped around Milo’s legs, fed another log to the fire, then started his quest. He strolled back and forth through the stacks, pausing each time he came within view of Milo to make sure he was still comfortable.

When Milo wasn’t aware he was being observed, he became very still. Like he’d been conditioned to dissociate and go somewhere else at every opportunity. A logical coping mechanism, given what he’d been through, but it was hard to see. Solitary confinement with no visitors and no hope of relief was torture. Tied up with nothing, engaging with nothing and nobody except Rupert for so long, could have driven Milo into a psychological break. The fact that Milo was so present and hadn’t completely broken down was a miracle. He was pretty sure Milo was still in shock from his rescue and the sudden change in his life.

Evan eventually found five atlases, and he brought them to Milo with a smile and a flourish. “I believe this will be a good start. How you feeling? Warm enough?”

“Yes, I’m warm. Thank you.”

“What do you think, should I get us a kettle of tea and some toast, really make it cozy?”

“I would like that very much, please?”

“You got it, I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, Milo had pulled his legs in under himself, an atlas open in his lap and seemingly deeply absorbed in it, so deeply that he noticed Evan only when he put down the tray. He looked up with eyes wide, lips moving like they did when he contemplated asking for something. Evan gave him some time, pouring him a cup of tea and adding sugar.

“How -- how long can I read this?” Milo finally asked.

“What do you mean?” Evan crouched by the chair so he could look up at Milo rather than down on him.

“Can I have it for an hour?”

Oh. The hope in Milo’s voice damn near tore his heart out of his chest.

“You can have them for as long as you want. You can have them, period. They’re yours now.”

“You mean ... I can keep them?”

“Yeah. I want you to keep them.”

“I ... I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never ... I’m not allowed.”

“You’re not allowed? To have your own things?”

Milo shook his head.

“Well, this is your hoodie, isn’t it? Your blanket that came from your bed, right?” Evan patted the back of the chair. “This is your chair now. Gotta have something to read while you’re sitting in your chair, yeah?”

Milo’s eyes were watering, and Evan felt his own voice shake as he continued. “And these are your books.”