Mycroft finds himself taking a seat as well, almost before he realizes he's chosen to do so. That bothers him—he's always very conscious of his decisions—but he figures it must be fatigue, as he's slept rather poorly since he's been in Baedal.

It's reassuring that the young lady only needs assistance with a small part of the book, since Mycroft had been concerned about spending too much of his time at this task. Her explanation is rational and she is polite. A far cry from the other youth who had pestered him earlier. This isn't something she could have asked of a librarian, after all.

He smoothes a few small creases out of his suit and leans his umbrella against the table, telling himself this is a perfectly rational and not-at-all hypocritical decision.

"Faeries," he says contemplatively, touching the book's cover with long, thin fingers. Mother used to tell him stories about faeries when he was very, very young. Once Sherlock was born, she was too distracted to tell stories anymore, so Mycroft told him. (Later tests done by the pair of them had seemed to conclusively prove that faeries were either make-believe or very good at hiding.)