A Bed of Woven Mohair

I crossed the dark parquet floor after my late return from the map archive, feeling the pleasant weariness in my golden pedestal as the house grew still. Near the hearth fender, a thick scrap of fringed mohair braid had slipped from a sewing basket, lying crumpled in an untidy knot against the brass rail. Pausing with unhurried poise, I placed my hands upon the coarse, fuzzy yarns and smoothed them into a tidy, double-thick crescent right in the sheltered curve of the brickwork. Lowering myself down, I settled my pedestal into the springy weave and clutched my lyre close. The deep fiber cushioned the hard boards beneath me, ushering the hushed room into quiet slumber.