Galahad is used to finding Lan Wangji here, and indeed was planning on finding him here today. He has his sketchbook as usual, and he's wearing the cloud-soft, sky-blue sweater Magnus picked for him; he has to roll the sleeves up over his hands or they're too long, but there's something pleasing about the sensation.

He hasn't seen Lan Wangji since Enjolras' meeting. He comes in quietly and sits nearby -- at a respectful distance from the table and Lan Wangji -- and flips open his sketchbook. In the last two weeks all his drawings have taken on a blasphemous cast: he keeps adding hagiography to his portraits, lambs and doves, croziers and aspergillum, vestments and symbols (Laertes with a discipline, Gideon in her skull paint with her sword aflame; Tress holding spores in her hand the way St Lucy holds her eyes, Claudius with great angelic wings; all of them haloed). There's something soothing about taking this language that he knows so intimately and using it to write about the people here, knowing God would hate it.

The latest sketch is Lan Wangji. With the rabbits and the qin he already looks like a saint surrounded by his associated objects, the way St Cuthbert is always shown with the otters who warmed his feet while he prayed in the north sea at night.