He laughs softly, a sound without humor. "The library, they found mostly boring with ask the good books already hidden away. It suffered the least of all, perhaps."

But this isn't about displaying scars; pain isn't a contest anyone can win, and he does not wish to think of his own part in it, either. He digs his right thumb into the palm of his left hand for a moment, the movement almost casual.

"Pick out a room you like in the east wrong," he says, an abrupt change of subject as he mentally pulls himself back on track. "You won't like the west wing. I'm having it shut off."