The switch from the desk in his room to a branch halfway up an oak is, naturally, a bit of a surprise. Feuilly's physical reflexes catch up to it before his thoughts do. It saves him a broken arm, maybe a broken neck. Thank you, Bahorel, for taking his body up into a tree
without warning. A tree in the center of some strange landscape of--art?
It's art. It's certainly art. It's Bahorel
art, but it's art. An art installation, that's what they'd probably call it in the future. Whatever Bahorel is in the middle of, up this tree, it involves knots--a rope web--cooking-pan noisemakers strung like beads--a bolt of Lyon jacquard silk--
Extracting himself from the situation is enough to keep Feuilly from thinking too much about the paint? all over his arms: he looks like he's been painted on fire,
red and gold swirls on black. His hair feels as if it's full of--something sticky. He's wearing--oh, never mind
When he walks through one of the back doors of the bar building, his first thought is to go straight to his room, wash, and hide for a week. Instead he takes a deep, deep
breath, and goes to knock on Harry's door.
How bad is it?