He watches August go, shooing the sidhe along with a cheery wave. And, once alone, his expression falls solemn. He sighs mightily, and heads out himself, to wander the halls. He passes by many a room where he could likely stop in and seek companionship for the evening, of one type or another, but the door he finally slips through is to the Library. Moving quietly to avoid stirring any possible slumbering wyrms, he curls into a corner with a slim volume plucked from the children’s shelf, and starts to read, at “Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Lucy and Edmund...”
And morning may find him, asleep there still, the book carefully held under one massive paw.