After he left her in the garret room, he considered going to the library while she unpacked, but when he reached the landing of the floor below, he heard the sob, which seemed to knock the air out of his lungs and sent shivers down his spine. He stopped in his tracks and listened, while his eyebrows knitted together, but all was still. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong profession, for whenever he was confronted with grief or pain, his heart ached just a little too much.

There was nothing he could do for her at this point, however, Tristan decided, and he made his way down another flight of stairs. Best give her some privacy. He decided to stay in the house however. Grief could do strange things to people, and he felt all the more responsible since it seemed he had provoked this sudden outburst with his unguarded speech.

By the time she came downstairs, he sat ensconced in a large velvet green armchair, his legs stretched out on the saloon table in front of her, because he had not heard her coming down the stairs. He was seemed immersed in a heavy volume, frowning in concentration. The drawing room seemed rather dark, with heavy double curtains blocking out much of the natural light. The room lacked the popular excess of furniture and was hardly decorated, making the one wall that was filled with bookshelves all the more conspicuous. Admittedly, there were far too few books to fill the shelves, and a few family and other photographs and other trinkets filled up the rest of the space. There was one miniature statue, about a feet high, of a young, naked man with an arm wrapped around the neck of a large eagle.

Tristan looked up when he heard her enter the room, pulled his feet of the table, put the book down (the cover revealed the title 'Phasen der Trauer'), and rose. "That's no problem at all," he quickly said, eager to make her feel more at ease than he had done before. "I hope the room is sufficient? I know it's not what you're used to..."