Even with the comfort (as it was) that the goddess-queen-empress provided, Temeraire has found little solace in this place. Nothing catches his eye, nothing entertains him. Nothing pleases him. How could he be pleased, when Laurence is not here, is not anywhere that Temeraire can find or reach? Things that are bright and soft seem painful to the eye, now, when they would normally be pleasing, so he gets on the train, to find solace in the vast emptiness out the window.
What he finds is the Sea of Crises, and it fits his mood so well that he stays there a while, wandering, until he hears mention of... of a library? Books cannot cure all ills, but he could certainly use something to focus on other than the full-body ache he feels, how heavy he is in heart and body. So he finds his way to the indicated building, and finds his way into one of the libraries, grateful he has figured out elevators, at least.
Of course, he can hardly read a book, his claws being what they are, and he sinks down in despondence right then and there, curling himself into a ball, tail tucked under his leg and head nestled against his stomach, until he looks like little more than a spiny hillock and a sloped side, all smooth gleaming scale. Heās ready to stay like that until hunger drives him out- if he ever can feel hunger again, with this weight on his heart- but then thereās a rustle, and he feels the weight of several books fall on his haunch.
With great effort, he drags his head out from where it was tucked into his stomach, under his wing, and he sticks his face directly into that of the human putting books on him, slit pupils flaring a little to examine her, breath hot from his nostrils.
āExcuse me, please, but I am not a bookshelf, or a table, or a desk. It is very rude to put your books on someone without asking.ā