It takes a while for one tipsy knight and two attentive young hangers-on to make it up the stairs in anything like order. But they manage it eventually, and Courfeyrac goes in ahead of the others to switch on the light and turn down the covers, mussed though they already are.

Courfeyrac is sprawled on Sagramore's bed in shirt and pants, reading in the slanting afternoon light from the windows. Anyone who likes to bother him -- anyone with free access to Sagramore's room, that is, which narrows it down ever so much -- would no doubt be welcome.

Conversation concluded, Courfeyrac goes upstairs and lets himself into Sagramore's room, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Courfeyrac is sitting on one of the porch seats, his arms folded on the railing and his chin on his arms, looking out over the lawn a little pensively. The sunshine is his element; he looks particularly well in it, for all his expression is unusually grave.

Open to all, though most particularly to *ahem* certain people who still need to meet him.

Courfeyrac had it in mind to visit Sagramore this afternoon, but when he came to the door there were very distinctly voices behind it; not particularly amorous voices, but familiar ones, and Courfeyrac wisely forbore to interrupt.

Now he's down by the porch steps, attempting not to mope.

Courfeyrac is sitting on the porch railing, with an arm wound around one of the supports, looking out toward the lake and the distant woods, a little wistfully.

[open for random crackshipping!]

(continued)

Fortunately this is not, to Courfeyrac, as unsettling as it might be to a man from another time period, but certainly it's upsetting. He sits on the edge of the bed and holds Sagramore tightly.

The day is fine, the sun is shining on the lake, the grass is thick and soft. Courfeyrac is stretched out on the lawn, his sleeves rolled up and one arm above his head, drowsing contentedly among the dandelions.

Along about six o'clock there is a knock at Molly's door; this proves to be a complacent-looking Sagramore, accompanied by a tall, curvy, auburn-haired girl with a peculiarly familiar giggle, wearing one of Courfeyrac's shirts.

Courfeyrac has an errand. It is not one he's particularly happy with, but there is, it transpires, surprisingly little that he will not do for love.

So he's gotten dressed properly for the first time in several weeks, and gone to knock on Queen Morgause's door.

Courfeyrac lets himself quietly out of Sagramore's room. He's looking a little unwontedly somber, and a little frayed round the edges.

Courfeyrac happens to be on his way upstairs -- alone, notably -- his hands tucked in his pockets, with an abstracted air.

There's a fire in the fireplace, and Courfeyrac is sprawled on the floor in front of it like the overgrown kitten he is, head pillowed in his arms, entirely in everyone's way.

Courfeyrac, for want of more useful occupation, is skipping stones on the lake. He's in his shirtsleeves, the breeze ruffling his auburn hair, and the whole tableau is quite boyishly fetching, but for God's sake don't tell him that.