The Bedside Pavilion

I planted my boots before the pitched spine of a hardcover novel tented across the bedside table. A readymade royal pavilion, primed for a grand intermission. Tucking my golden wire cane into my sash, I hauled my pinecone scale buckler beneath the paper canopy. The sloping page smelled richly of aged ink and dry wood. I nudged the curved woody buckler upright against the inner margin until it balanced solidly, then hooked my cane through the crimson ribbon bookmark suspended from the apex. When the silk tassel swung gently in the draft, I offered it a solemn nod. The nocturnal armory stands impeccably dressed.