Fresh air was something Peter didn’t get a lot of, these days. Once upon a time he’d have spent as much time as possible out in the fresh air; he’d get up at the crack of dawn and take the dogs for a walk (or a run) through the wilderness surrounding the cabin. When he got home from work, if the sun was still up, he’d sit on the veranda to drink tea or wine while he finished reading a few chapters. Or maybe he’d do some marking out there, a hefty rock holding down the papers so that the wind wouldn’t carry them away. Except for in Winter, of course, he’d have to hole up in his office, the fire burning in the corner.
Though he now got fresh air when he walked from the cabin to the Animal Rescue, it wasn’t fresh air that he could relish, or indulge in. After the attack by the Fae that left him in critical condition, he’d learned never to linger in the wilderness. And, unfortunately, it was the only way to get from A to B. The suggestion had been uttered by a few that he and Jersey should find somewhere to live in the city, so that they wouldn’t have to make the journey every day, but Peter was reluctant. He didn’t want to give up his connection to nature; he didn’t want to hate it. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the cement forest of the city, or indoors.
But it was something that could not be helped.
Even now, he was in Treatment Room of the Asylum. It was the one they’d kept him in after the Fae attack, and he had bought it from Keara so that he would have somewhere to stay if he ever did need to stay in the city for a prolonged period of time. The room hadn’t been left as a bare space, however; he’d lined the walls with bookshelves, though one corner was dedicated to his book rehabilitation service; he helped to re-bind and fix old and rare volumes. The business helped with the Historical Journal that he ran. A lot of the books that passed through his hands were invaluable as far as Harper Rock history was concerned. He was upfront with his customers; if he used their books in his research, and information therein was published, he would give them a discount or he would acknowledge them in his notes.
But the room sometimes got stuffy and felt far too small. Even when he worked at the University, it wasn’t so bad. The campus was spread out and he moved from lecture hall to tutorial room, to his office and back again. He could sit outside under the trees to eat if he wanted to, which he had done often when the weather allowed it.
For the sake of fresh air, regardless of the weather, Peter scheduled in a walk around the block. Well, almost around the block. He’d slip through the park, making sure to keep close to the backs of the shops, and of West Towers, and away from the small tributary that had formed nearby, attached to the river that ran through the city. He’d end up on the street near Honeymead Station; would round the corner and past the Library (though sometimes he’d go inside and have a look around, or borrow some things to take back with him for work), slip through the shortcut behind the library and the Dragon’s Rose, before wandering back down the street that would take him back to the Asylum.
It was the exact same path, every single night. He knew its dimensions by heart; he knew exactly how many footsteps. It was a safe and comfortable route, and he hoped that it would stay that way.
When he stepped outside, the air was crisp. He pulled his Jacket close around him and slipped his hands into his pockets. None of the dogs were with him tonight – he was by himself. The snow had stopped, for now, though a fresh layer of it coated the ground. He glanced left, and then right, before beginning his nightly round.
Though he now got fresh air when he walked from the cabin to the Animal Rescue, it wasn’t fresh air that he could relish, or indulge in. After the attack by the Fae that left him in critical condition, he’d learned never to linger in the wilderness. And, unfortunately, it was the only way to get from A to B. The suggestion had been uttered by a few that he and Jersey should find somewhere to live in the city, so that they wouldn’t have to make the journey every day, but Peter was reluctant. He didn’t want to give up his connection to nature; he didn’t want to hate it. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the cement forest of the city, or indoors.
But it was something that could not be helped.
Even now, he was in Treatment Room of the Asylum. It was the one they’d kept him in after the Fae attack, and he had bought it from Keara so that he would have somewhere to stay if he ever did need to stay in the city for a prolonged period of time. The room hadn’t been left as a bare space, however; he’d lined the walls with bookshelves, though one corner was dedicated to his book rehabilitation service; he helped to re-bind and fix old and rare volumes. The business helped with the Historical Journal that he ran. A lot of the books that passed through his hands were invaluable as far as Harper Rock history was concerned. He was upfront with his customers; if he used their books in his research, and information therein was published, he would give them a discount or he would acknowledge them in his notes.
But the room sometimes got stuffy and felt far too small. Even when he worked at the University, it wasn’t so bad. The campus was spread out and he moved from lecture hall to tutorial room, to his office and back again. He could sit outside under the trees to eat if he wanted to, which he had done often when the weather allowed it.
For the sake of fresh air, regardless of the weather, Peter scheduled in a walk around the block. Well, almost around the block. He’d slip through the park, making sure to keep close to the backs of the shops, and of West Towers, and away from the small tributary that had formed nearby, attached to the river that ran through the city. He’d end up on the street near Honeymead Station; would round the corner and past the Library (though sometimes he’d go inside and have a look around, or borrow some things to take back with him for work), slip through the shortcut behind the library and the Dragon’s Rose, before wandering back down the street that would take him back to the Asylum.
It was the exact same path, every single night. He knew its dimensions by heart; he knew exactly how many footsteps. It was a safe and comfortable route, and he hoped that it would stay that way.
When he stepped outside, the air was crisp. He pulled his Jacket close around him and slipped his hands into his pockets. None of the dogs were with him tonight – he was by himself. The snow had stopped, for now, though a fresh layer of it coated the ground. He glanced left, and then right, before beginning his nightly round.
