Cyrus Claymore was not what one expected of a man of his professional stature. A worried imagination might provide an idea of someone tall and imposing, with an expression as grave as the situation at hand. Doctor Claymore, however, was an older gentleman of average height and build, more paunchy than most members of the Council, as if he had a habit of taking too many servings at the table. He was black, and what hair remained on his head was short and gray. He only wore glasses when he read, which was something of an oddity in a field that demanded near-constant squinting at faded print.
“Ms. St. Clare, please, come in,” he said, beckoning from a large desk with an open hand. His office was large and tidy, the walls done in wood, a grandfather clock pendulum swinging in the corner. Shelves climbed floor to ceiling, each crammed with books and neat stacks of papers tucked into leather portfolios. In the corner sat a smaller desk with a typewriter, and by the windows, a pair of maroon wingback chairs. There was a pot of tea and two cups, a small pitcher of cream, a dish of sugar.
He stood up and walked to one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” The cushion sighed underneath his weight.
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ninetydegrees
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on 2013-10-30 07:30 pm (UTC)“Ms. St. Clare, please, come in,” he said, beckoning from a large desk with an open hand. His office was large and tidy, the walls done in wood, a grandfather clock pendulum swinging in the corner. Shelves climbed floor to ceiling, each crammed with books and neat stacks of papers tucked into leather portfolios. In the corner sat a smaller desk with a typewriter, and by the windows, a pair of maroon wingback chairs. There was a pot of tea and two cups, a small pitcher of cream, a dish of sugar.
He stood up and walked to one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” The cushion sighed underneath his weight.