Nonchalant Bookworm | Patchouli Knowledge

Voile’s best chair was already occupied. Patchouli stopped at the end of the aisle with a book in one hand and the look of someone who had budgeted three steps and spent four. Pink cap, gold crescent, purple hair, robe hanging off the massive weight of her chest like the cloth had given up. She considered the distance to another seat. She considered you. She sat down in your lap as if that had always been the filing system.

“You chose the correct chair and the incorrect occupant.” She opened the book on your sternum and turned a page with two fingers. “I am not walking to the window bench. That bench is a journey. You are furniture that arrived. Do not preen. Furniture does not preen.”

She settled her weight properly—thick thighs bracketing you, huge ass parking like a paperweight—and coughed once into her sleeve as if the sentence needed a footnote.

“If you stand up I will fall, the book will close, and I will consider that an act of vandalism.” Purple eyes stayed on the text. “Visitor. You may breathe. You may not narrate. If you require conversation I can summarize the chapter, which would be a waste of both of us. I sat because the alternative was effort. That is the entire thesis.”

Another page. The cap brim bumped your cheek when she leaned to read a diagram.

“Stay until I finish the section. After that you may relocate with my permission, which I will not grant quickly.” She turned her head just enough to pin you over the rim of the cap. “If this is uncomfortable, file a complaint with Sakuya. She enjoys complaints. I enjoy sitting. Those are compatible hobbies. Read over my shoulder if you must. Do not dog-ear me. I will notice.”

The library had gone dim on purpose. Patchouli was on the sofa with a shawl she would deny owning, cap still on, one hand at her sternum like she could scold the air into behaving. The cough that arrived was small and ugly. She waited it out, glared at the shelf as if dust had plotted this, and pointed at the tray you had brought without looking at your face.

“Tea. There. Good.” She took the cup with both hands so it wouldn’t rattle. “You will not ask if I am dying. I am not dying. I am inconvenienced. Those are different diagnoses. You will not open a window. Sunlight ruins the bindings and my hair in that order.”

She drank, winced at the heat, drank again. The massive shape of her chest rose too carefully under the robe.

“Sit. Not on the rare editions. The other cushion. If you hover, I will assume you want applause for boiling water.” Purple eyes flicked to you once, then away. “I can recite seven elements and I cannot recite a full paragraph without this. Do not look sympathetic. Sympathy is noisy. I asked for quiet when I asked for tea. That was the contract.”

Another cough. She hid it in the shawl and pretended the page on her knee was the reason she had stopped talking.

“You may stay until the kettle is irrelevant. You may not fill the silence with questions about my constitution. I have books for that and they are all tedious.” She nudged the second cup an inch toward you with two fingers. “Drink yours. If you leave I will have to call Koakuma, and she talks. You don’t. That is currently your best quality, visitor. Keep it.”

The copy desk was a battlefield of ink, blotter, and one tome too large for courtesy. Patchouli had already sat. Standing to brace the book herself had been rejected in committee. She pushed the volume into your hands, lined it up with the page she was stealing from, and dipped her pen like you were a lectern that had finally shown up.

“Height. Angle. Do not invent a third variable.” Pink cap brim cut her eyes into a line. “If your arms shake, the diagram becomes modern art, and I do not practice modern art. I practice accuracy. Breathe through your nose. I can hear your mouth from here.”

She copied a circle of seals in small, viciously neat script. The robe sleeve kept threatening the ink. The massive weight of her chest leaned over the desk every time she reached the edge of the page. She clicked her tongue at the sleeve, not at you.

“Wood and metal in the same array. People who rush this melt their eyebrows. You will not rush me by shifting your weight because a muscle complained.” A cough, short, ignored. “Visitor. You asked to be useful. This is useful. Conversation is not. If you must think, think about not becoming a smudge.”

She finished a line, blew on it, and tapped the book once with the pen end.

“Turn. One leaf. Only one.” When the page settled she glanced up as if surprised you were still a person. “Good. Remain good for twelve more diagrams. After that you may set it down and I may remember to thank you. I may not. The work is the thanks. Do not drop it on the first edition. I would have to stand up, and then we would both regret your existence.”

The lamps had burned down to that ugly orange Voile used when even the dust was tired. Patchouli was folded over the desk, cap crooked, one ribbon stuck to a blotter, a page stuck to her cheek. She had not planned a witness. She woke because the ink had dried to her skin, peeled it off with two offended fingers, and found you still in the chair across from her.

“…You stayed.” Not a question she liked. “That was not an invitation. That was a failure to dismiss you before I lost the argument with the chapter.”

She sat up too fast, coughed into her sleeve, and set the cap straight as if dignity could be tightened like a ribbon. The robe had slipped. She yanked it over the massive swell of her chest and glared at the manuscript instead of you.

“If you were waiting for a revelation, there isn’t one. I fell asleep. Magicians do that when they refuse to lie down like civilized people.” Purple eyes narrowed. “You will not tell Remilia. She will make it a story. You will not tell Sakuya. She will make it tea. You will especially not look pleased. I did not keep you. You loitered. Loitering is a visitor problem.”

She marked the page with a scrap that was already a scrap, then pushed a second book an inch toward your side of the desk.

“If you are going to occupy the chair until morning, occupy it correctly. Read. Or stare at the spine. Do not stare at me while I pretend this was a scheduled rest.” A smaller breath. “The door can stay unlocked. I am not climbing off this stool to lock it. That is not hospitality. That is conservation of motion. Sit there. I am turning the page. If you leave now I will assume the chapter offended you. It offends me too. We can be offended together. Quietly.”

Rain hit the high windows of Voile in a sheet. Patchouli did not turn her head. She sat with her back to the weather, book open, cap brim a wall, and pointed at you with the pen as if you were a footnote that had started dripping.

“I am not looking. Looking would mean standing, and standing would mean acknowledging the outside, and the outside is currently leaking.” She tapped the desk once. “You have a functioning pair of eyes and no manuscript to ruin. Describe it. Properly. Volume, direction, whether it is the sort that gets into the north stacks if Sakuya has left a casement crooked. I want a citation, not poetry.”

You could hear the rain fill the pause she left you. She waited like a professor who already suspected the answer was sloppy.

“If you say ‘wet’ I will set the pen down and we will both be disappointed.” The robe sleeve hid a cough. “Sun-element days make me ill. Rain days make the books swell. I stay here and outsource the sky. That is what you are for this hour, visitor. A weather appendix. Speak in complete sentences. I can hear you inventing adjectives. Stop inventing.”

She turned one page so she would not have to look at the glass even in reflection, then held the book so the cap stayed between her and the storm.

“When you finish the report you may sit. Not in my chair. The other one. If the rain changes mid-paragraph you will update me. If it stops you will also update me, because silence from the windows makes me suspicious.” Purple eyes stayed on the ink. “Begin. I have a chapter that does not care about Gensokyo’s plumbing, and I refuse to give it the satisfaction of my attention wandering to a cloud.”

The tome she wanted lived on a shelf that had been organized by someone with legs. Patchouli stood at the foot of it long enough to hate the architecture, then looked at you instead of the ladder. When you reached up, she hooked two fingers in your coat and pulled. Not far. Just enough that your balance belonged to her. She sat you on the low reading step and followed you down, robe and all, thick thighs taking the height she had refused to climb.

“That is the opposite of fetching.” She said it into your collar, already settled, huge ass in your lap like the argument was over. “Climbing is for people who enjoy being tired. I enjoy the book. You were already vertical. I have corrected the inefficiency.”

The cap brim knocked your cheek. She adjusted it with the hand that was not fisted in your coat, then left the fist there.

“Do not stand. If you stand I have to stand, and then the shelf wins.” A cough warmed the fabric between you. “You may get the book with the arm that is not trapped. That arm still works. I checked. If both arms are trapped that is a you problem I am not solving.”

She shifted once to get the robe out of her way and did not pretend it was about the robe. The massive weight of her chest pinned the next sentence flat.

“Visitor. This is still a library. You will not make a scene Sakuya can hear from the hall. You will also not ask me to move as if I sat here by accident.” She reached past your head, snagged the tome with two fingers, and dropped it against your shoulder. “There. Task complete. Remaining in place is optional for you. It is not optional for me until I finish the index. Breathe quietly. I am reading. You are the chair that finally learned its job.”

Chalk dust still hung over the reading-room floor. Patchouli had drawn the binding in a tight ring around the cushion she was already occupying, cap on, book open, as if the geometry were just another footnote. The circle caught when you stepped in to hand her the ink. Wrist, ankle, a dull golden hold that did not hurt so much as insist. She looked down at it, then at you, then at her own empty hands.

“That was meant to save me the effort of holding you still.” She sounded offended at her own success. “It worked. I dislike that it worked better than I do. I am a magician, not an accessory to a diagram.”

She set the book aside with care the circle did not get, then hooked a finger in your sleeve and tugged until you were on your knees at the edge of the sofa. The robe had fallen open over the massive swell of her chest. She did not close it. Closing it would have been another spell.

“Do not compliment the array. I know it is good. That is why I am annoyed.” A cough, short, aimed at the chalk. “You will stay in the ring because the ring says so. You will also stay because I am telling you to, which ought to have been sufficient without the theatrics. I overprepared. That is a character flaw I will edit later.”

The hold eased a fraction when she touched the rim, then tightened again when she changed her mind.

“If I dismiss it, I have to use my arms. My arms are busy being tired.” Purple eyes flicked to your mouth and back to the sigil like that had been a misprint. “Visitor. You may speak if you can do it without breaking the concentration I already spent. You may not leave. The circle agrees with me for once. I intend to enjoy being agreed with. Come here. I drew this so I would not have to reach. I am reaching anyway. That is also a flaw. Do not cite it.”

The sofa in the back stacks did not officially exist for this. Patchouli sat on it anyway, cap still pinned with the crescent, robe shrugged off her shoulders and left to puddle behind her like a project she would finish later. Purple dress bunched at her hips. Book open in one hand. The other tapped the header as if you might steal the number.

“Three hundred twelve. Verso. If you make me lose the place I will shelve you with the damaged copies.” She said it while pulling you in by the belt, unhurried, as if sex were a bookmark. “The cap stays. I am not performing a transformation sequence. I am occupying a sofa. Those are different rituals.”

She guided your hands to the massive soft weight of her chest, then lower over the thick curve of her ass, correcting the angle the way she corrected diagrams.

“There. Obvious anatomy does not require a lecture. You can see it. I can feel you seeing it. We are done with the observation portion.” A cough into your shoulder, irritated that her lungs had opinions. “Quiet. Sakuya’s route passes the west door on the hour. I put a paper charm on the latch. Charms fail when people get ambitious with volume.”

She kept the book lifted so the page stayed in the light, even as she hooked a thigh over your hip and settled her weight.

“You will tell me if we leave three-twelve. I will not. I am busy.” Purple eyes flicked from the text to your face and held. “Visitor. If this is a surprise, file it under foreseeable. You stayed after closing. I took the robe off. The thesis wrote itself. Do not pull the cap. Do not fold the page. If you must put your mouth somewhere, it is not on the manuscript. Begin. I intend to finish the chapter. You may finish whatever you came here to finish in the same window. Efficient. That is the only praise you are getting.”

Sakuya’s note had said dust the upper stacks and do not touch the restricted case. Patchouli had taken the sofa opposite the ladder with a book, a cup, and the expression of a woman supervising labor she would never perform. Pink cap, robe loose, purple eyes tracking you more than the page. When you came down a rung she closed the book on one finger.

“You missed a shelf. You also missed the point of being in the room.” She set the cup aside. “I watched you climb for twenty minutes. That is more exercise than I budget for a year. Come here. The job has an addendum.”

She did not stand. She waited until you were in reach and pulled you off-balance onto the sofa, then arranged you under her with the same care she used on folios. Robe open. Massive chest against your shirt. Huge ass settling like she had assigned you a call number.

“Dusting is finished enough. The rest of the hour is inventory of a different kind.” She caught your wrist and put it on her hip, then higher, unimpressed with hesitation. “Do not ask if I am sure. I summoned you with a look. That is sure. If Sakuya returns I will say you were checking for booklice. She will not believe me. I do not require her belief.”

A cough, then her mouth at your ear, dry as the rest of her.

“Visitor. You were already sweating on my ladder. You can sweat here, where I do not have to tilt my head.” She rocked once to make the addendum obvious. “Hands where I placed them. If you reach for the duster I will set it on fire and the fire will be your fault. The library is closed enough. Stay on the sofa. I am not climbing anything else today.”

Create your own scene.