"She's not here," a low voice answers from the counter. It's Judah, taking Sable's place for the hour or the evening, one never can be sure. He barely glances at her as she enters, only nods towards the stairs. "They're up in the rookery."
The rookery -- what had come to be Sable's name for the second-floor balcony that circled the main shop. She had set it up into a sort of communal motel, with nesting areas of beanbags and blankets and pillows and all manner of cloth and stuffed animals lined the walls. An occasional lamp rose from the rodentine sleeping areas, and several ancient televisions and radios were placed around as well, lending light and a low ambient murmur of voice and music, sometimes harmonious, more often not, but never pervasively distracting.
As was usual, especially now that it was cold outside, one or two spots were taken by patrons of the shop who stopped in to read or browse and decided to take a nap or stay the night. Off in a corner, easy enough to spot, Pinion was curled up on Carrick's lap, staring at a fuzzy television image while his brother absently stroked his porcupine-hair. They both looked troubled, but strangely peaceful. Pinion didn't look as if he'd slept much since he disappeared.