[He is (as she would be, were the tables turned) beyond her immediate vicinity, one of the servants instead perched at the ready sees to ushering her inside out of the cold. It's the distant sound of voices in an otherwise hollow home that ought to cue him in well before she's led to the parlor, but he's lost in deep, drowning sleep on the lounge by the time she's there at his side, staff apologetic for the mistake on their part to the tune of Sir Galahad's pinched up snoring, Combed back hair now out of place where the arm rest has pushed it forward to drape across the span of his brow.]
no subject