The teacup was a warm, delicate weight in his palm, one of a half dozen the cook kept sending up as she often did when the the morning had been particularly hostile. He had been thoroughly soaked by the time Master Bradoon had finished with him, and the Cook had clucked over him, warning about chills and colds and fevers... he had borne it with a smile, enjoying her concern.<br/><br/>He sipped the aromatic, bitter tea and glanced towards his open bedroom door to be sure no one lingered to listen before he picked up the novel on his bedside table and parted the pages. His bookmark was a faded lemon-coloured silk ribbon, fraying at both ends. Had he a hand free, he would twist it through restless fingers as he read, though with the tea he couldn't. Reading was not a pastime he found much pleasure in, but he was as adamant about having time to read as he was about taking sword practice, no matter the weather.<br/><br/>A habit he had come to under the roof of the Teahouse was something he took great pride in, but the one he had come to when still at the Briars was something he found rather shameful. He didn't wish it known. He feared the ridicule.<br/><br/>In a voice softer than his usual, he started to read aloud, carefully shaping each word as he spoke it, in an accent that was courtly and proper. He read from the crisp pages for several minutes, an account of a war they had engaged in some years before he was born. It was rather drab, but he didn't buy books for their content. Several pages in, he stumbled. The word was one he had never seen or heard before. The end of it was familiar but he couldn't get his tongue around the start of it. It seemed to loom at him, mocking him for his failing.<br/><br/>He stared at it.<br/><br/>He loathed it.<br/><br/>He slid the ribbon in place and closed the book, turning it to glare at the author's name.<br/><br/>"May your cock rot," he hissed with sadistic venom in his perfect, well bred voice.<br/><br/>Still, he couldn't rest. He wanted to know how to say the poxriddled word. He needed to know. He would be distracted all day otherwise. He put down the teacup and stood, passing one hand through his hair. Ryan would know, but to ask him... he couldn't. He couldn't bare to have the Master look at him like he were stupid. But... who else?<br/><br/>Fiona had books. Had a great interest in them. She would know... and she was not malicious as the others were.<br/><br/>Still holding the book, he left his room, not bothering to pick up his overcoat on his way. He closed his room's door as he left it. A little way down the corridor was her room, and he paused, listening to be sure she wasn't entertaining before he rapped on her door.