Librian. The word cut deep into the bone. Once upon a time he was Librian. But recently, on most days he felt like a dangerous, unpredictable sense offender.
"I didn't know you lived here. You fainted not far from here. The door was unlocked." Like a good soldier, his response was mechanical, one word indiscernible in its monotony from the next.
Of course, if she was asking why he was here in this city rather than back in Libria, or if it was a philosophical question about his raison d'ĂȘtre - he didn't have an answer for that, and he suspected Errol Partridge did not either.
The next question was far more difficult to answer. He turned his head and cleared his throat, dropping his gaze down to the space between them. It was near impossible to mask the pained expression that came and went on his face.