The next afternoon, Theoran looked at the book, and then at me, as though he were trying to work out which of us had come to see him.
I had brought it to his office, mostly because carrying it there meant I could give it back. The office looked as it always did: books on every surface, papers in the gaps between the books, the cane leaning against the desk, and a pot of tea that remained proof that age did not automatically produce wisdom. I sat opposite him with Dream Haven between my back and the chair and the advancement book resting on my knees.
"You brought it."
"Yes."
"I had begun to assume it was lost."
"Never."
"Have you read it?"
"Thoroughly."
Theoran leaned back. "Which parts?"
"The cover. Several times."
He looked at me. I kept my face serious.
"Five months," he said.
"The cover has depth."
"I see."
