themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

Mori ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, settling back on the lounge. "I did so promise. I... Ask again after tea. I'll have come up with something to say by then."

It would be with the Tailor's approach to the kitchen that a scratching could be heard on the other side of the door, pushing the swinging mechanism only slightly, though the limb doing the scratching seemed to also do so with a resounding plaap with each contact.

The smile reappeared and the Tailor nodded. Yes, they'd been right then--the Socialite was reluctant to share their plans, if any. That... it didn't necessarily sting, and it didn't have any right to. Both of them had allowed each other their secrets, from first day. The Tailor would let it lie, even if a little piece of them that hoarded secrets wanted to pry and pry. They'd leave it be for now. In the meantime, they stood to full (if diminutive) height and returned to the kitchen door.

Ah. They tsked, expecting to find Tularemia indignant at being left behind. "Now, it's not my fault if you can't keep up," they teased as they pulled it open, "and besides, the biting was very impolite."

A lampcat, a shimmering shade of violet-cerulean, trilled happily as it walked in the door. It was, of course, mildly damp as it rubbed up against the Tailor's pant leg, light and tail standing up in fond greeting. The wet was also remarkably cold for being false summer. It stretched luxuriously and seemed happy to attempt to trip the Tailor by walking between their legs with all the flexibility of an eel.

Mori laughed lightly. "Taph seems to like you. And he also likely left the ice box open. Doesn't do well in this weather."

This creature, odd and dark and consistently brushed and pleased, was undoubtedly, wholly Mori's. Where Tularemia was shared between Mori and Enoch, this was a very Morbid Socialite sort of animal.

Surprised, the Tailor managed not to stumble as the lampcat twisted around their calves, and they hand, which had already lowered to offer to what they had presumed was a wayward stoat, now pressed to cool and wet fur, silky smooth.

"Hello," they said a little haltingly, "You're a very friendly one, aren't you, then?"

An old memory of cat-chasing passed them by. They brushed their hand across the length of the animal in greeting, and cautiously stepped over the Taph to navigate the kitchen and fetch the cream and sugar, making sure to close the icebox as they did. Their hand was cold and damp now, and with a grimace they kept away from the doorway they wiped it on their already damp trousers.

"Do you know any secrets, then?" they asked the creature as they passed through the door again, half-joking. "Any hints you might whisper to me about our mutual friend?"

Sugar and cream were set on the low table, in Mori's reach to prepare as they liked.

Taph seemed oddly silent and a little... dull of wit, compared to the cats the Tailor was used to. He whistled and trilled, going to stand by the door once again with a hearty FLAP of his tail. What an odd creature... It imparts a brief thought with the flash of its bulb, hypnotizing in a gentle way. A traitor's epitaph. It paws at the door once more.

A cork popped out of a glass bottle on the other side just as the door back out opened. Mori poured just a splash of laudanum in the bottom of their own cup, just enough to act as a pain killer. He looked up and smiled. "Ah, thank you. I'll pour the tea. Hopefully, it hasn't been too long. What would you like in yours?" He was already putting two sugars in the bottom of his cup.

Edited 2025-07-09 22:51 (UTC)

"Two sugars as well," they said with a crooked smile, choosing to finally sit in the armchair. It settled around them in a way that felt familiar and nearly correct, even if the size swamped them a little. Their hands fell into their lap.

"You know, I don't think I've properly... sat down, without having work to do, for several days now. I almost don't know what to do with myself."

Tularemia could be found at the head of the armchair, curled as if in sleep, but one ear twitching.

Two sugars and no laudanum was placed in the Tailor's cup, the two cups poured over elegantly with a deeply aromatic, black tea. The heat emulsified the sugar almost instantly and Mori handed the Tailor their cup. "If you're asking, I find reading to be enjoyable. Or sitting in thought. If you're, instead, using it to start conversation, it can be difficult to sit and rest when momentum says you should continue. But I continue what I attempted to say at the lecture, your body will choose a most inconvenient time for you to rest, if you do not choose so first."

Mori laughed behind a hand. "I once fell asleep with my face in a fresh rib cage in university. And, two weeks later, collapsed in the midst of a presentation on parasites and fungus. One of my lowerclassmen attempted to diagnose me with brain worms."

They accepted the cup, sipping slowly and making an appreciative noise. After having so much jasmine from Sophia's and blends from Beatrice's, this was a new and welcome change. The warmth settled in their chest, even as they lowered the cup quietly to snort in an unflattering manner at Mori's expense.

"I've tried reading, a little, but I've always struggled with it. Letters sit still, but I don't. I find I'm always restless." Their gaze lowered and they frowned, voice dropping to a more serious timbre even without their meaning to. "And when I sleep, there are dreams. Even before class, there are dreams. If anything, the ones I have after class are... I don't know." They shook their head. "But if the earlier incident is any indication," they glanced up to Tularemia, and a curl drifted into their face from the motion, "then I should accept you're right."

They tried to tuck the loose curl back, looking back to Mori. "But it's..." their eyes roamed across his face as they looked for the words. "When I want something, when I have a goal, everything in me just wants to run at it. I have to grab it with both hands. Does that make any sort of sense?"

"It does," Mori nodded. "More than a sort. It makes plenty of sense. That sort of motivation can be rewarding in short instances. However, to pursue something so single-mindedly for the long term... One might call it madness, I call it torture. If there is one thing the Neath and living with a hunter has taught me, it is that one must become used to delay. Keep your goal in mind, pursue it relentlessly, but man was once a hunter known for its stamina. Where your target may sprint, you must marathon. Slow, steady movement will be your greatest ally."

Mori took a sip of tea and sighed as their moved their injured leg onto the fainting couch. "As well, the Bohemians have a phrase I find at times helpful. 'Perfection seeks quantity over quality.' To put in plainly and not like a honey-mazed artiste, if you must do something perfectly, you must practice again and again and again. If you pursue perfection on your first try, you will never find it."

"Of the nightmares... I'm afraid I have nothing of help beyond what the Maven may say plainer than I. But it does help to sleep in the presence of someone you trust. I narrowly avoid chronic terrors by help of my company at home. I do not know how you might attain such a condition, but no man is an island."

"Does... any of that make sense at all? I apologize, I've realized I've been rambling without allowing you word edgewise."

"It does," the Tailor said, but they were frowning like they weren't happy about it. Their hunts did have pursuit to them, and waiting in the dark, still as death, and it did force them to be patient. They were markedly better about it then, though there were times where they wanted to force the issue. Every type of prey called for a different kind of attack.

And, to make it worse, there was an appeal to the artist in them, the one that studied, improved their stitchwork, bettering their skill. If they kept at it, if they just...

That Mori had used such a fitting analogy, and then a comparison, both which they could understand stung a little--not in a bad way. It just meant being seen. They couldn't ignore it.

And they didn't have anyone. To that last point, they were alone--unmarried, much to a certain Barrister's dismay, or more than anything married to their work. As for trust--

"A good thing I am staying over this evening," they joked, "spouse's orders."

They cleared their throat, took another fortifying sip from the cup. "So!" The fellow said brightly, trying for lightness. "You know what my madness is. Have you decided you'll tell me yours? For class, that is." They closed their eyes, already braced for another deflection, and then decided to try to get ahead of it. "You told me once not to ask after what haunted you, and you kept my own secrets in turn. I can honor if there are things you won't or can't share, if only you just said as much. Say so, and I'll leave it be, and keep poking at your expense about this 'adoption' business."

It was meant to be a joke. An out. They were already expecting refusal.

Mori chuckled at the reminder of their spouse's orders to the Tailor, but found the smile soon falling. Their expression was thoughtful and a touch worried as they listened, his gaze trailing away, into other parts of the room as he let his head turn over the thoughts running through them. A soft smile at the teasing about adoption, but the tea was set down, hands folded before him.

"Dear Tailor," he started, "I am sure you are familiar with the deathlessness of the Neath, how the citizens of London, if not torn to shreds, will eventually awake with a refreshed body. If my understanding of your circumstance is correct, you have lived down here for as long as you can remember. You know no different understanding of death, half way temporary and something to be careful of, but not reviled so wholly. Am I understanding correctly?" A genuine question and, perhaps, a way to stall for time as he considered how to phrase the real answer, how much of it he wanted to give. But the tight line of his lips and the tired, lazy shifting of his eyes over the sitting room floor said that whatever would follow, however much of it there was, would be the truth. A difficult truth, if the fear of confronting it was to be believed, but a truth nonetheless.

Their gaze dropped to their cup, and then the Tailor drained it and set it down on the table to give Mori their full attention. No more avoidance from them.

"You're right. We never found it frightening; those who learned taught the others that the Boatman was kind. The thing to fear was the constabulary. They could make you hurt without death ever touching you. With that said," they continued seriously, sitting back with their arms crossed, "I know the Surface is... different in that regard."

Their eyes scanned the floor. "There was a woman who chose to line her mausoleum with mirrors and her coffin with sunlight. It kept her from rising again. Didn't want to deteriorate, I was told."

They closed their eyes and shook their head. "I don't pretend to understand more," they admitted. "Just that you don't wake up. Just that light itself keeps you from waking up. It's a concept I still haven't wrapped my mind around, because I don't know its shape."

They'd only killed a man properly once. Well, twice. But Feducci had reappeared, whole and hail. The other one... They tried not to think about it often.

Edited 2025-07-10 03:01 (UTC)

Mori nodded. "Before the Fall, death was as inevitable as it was unknown. We didn't know what lay beyond, what awaited us on the other side. We only knew that that was the end, the nothing, the eternal sleep, hopefully dreamless. Some speculated a blessed afterlife. Others, a void. We could not conceive of the predetermined nothing. It was almost an obsession for a time, a wave of influence and artistic inspiration from which I chose my name. 'Memento mori.' Latin. 'Remember, you must die.' A morbid sentiment and a venerable one, a reminder of what was to come and that there would be no second chance. The body continued on, aging and rotting and decaying, without the inhabitant of the soul, the life, the mind."

"On the Surface, people cease to be when they die for any reason, not just when their body fails to restore itself. In the Neath, so long as the body can pull itself together, the spirit lives on. Why? How? What difference lies between the dark and the light, the Neath and the Surface? And... can it be reapplied? Can someone who died in the light be brought back in the dark?"

"The first I could answer when I came to the Neath was no, simply bringing a body to the Neath does not restore it, neither in body nor soul. So, what could? Perhaps the Correspondence? Perhaps the Red Science? What can defy the Laws of the Light besides reapplied light itself?"

In the process of talking, Mori had turned away, face unseen from the armchair, and faced the chest underneath the writing desk. "What could possibly bring my daughter back?"

A hand pressed to the Tailor's mouth as the Socialite--as Doctor Mementomori spoke. They thought of Tomb Colonies, of old thin hands wrapped in bandages, faces hidden. Thought of the lively energy still in each and every one of them, living and breathing and dancing.

A body like that with no spirit? Mori was right. They couldn't envision it. Their scope was so small. They were lacking, their single experience from a man who was in his prime, whose body was healthy, and they hadn't stayed to see what would happen after.

They followed Mori's gaze, and while their eyes caught on on the chest (a small chest, really), the words were what caused a cold pain to slip between the Tailor's ribs.

They couldn't explain it. The hand on their mouth pressed to their breastbone instead, knuckles braced there and trying to soothe while their friend's back was turned.

"Your singular goal," they murmured in recollection. "You said you were blinded by memory, earlier."

("We want to warm the pot so when we pour in the water, it doesn't shatter in your hands." Like teaching a child why to do something that seems silly, but has good reason.)

"How long have you been--" they didn't know how to finish the question. They shook their head and rubbed their chest again. What to say? When they could barely grasp the edges of the picture? They'd never had someone who died permanently. Not anyone they knew, anyway. They'd never known their parents, assumed them dead, ignored the very real chance those people were alive and just had not wanted them, and all they'd known was an impermanence. Loss was only ever a choice of someone choosing to leave you behind. This wasn't like that.

They closed their eyes. That feeling from earlier had returned, like they were a wrong thing in a place. "And this is why you were in the class for it. To see if you could manipulate it for this." Their tone was without emotion. Sympathy would be like pity, like condescension. And the thing they were feeling was too difficult to describe, but whatever it was, it was too self-absorbed and they wanted no part of it.

"Do you want to talk about her?"

It felt like an intrusion.

His head lowered, face still unseen. Hands worried around interlaced fingers, then releasing, then lacing a different way. In the silence, the soft click of an opening mouth could be heard, twice, thrice.

"It... It has been sixteen years since I first held her in my arms, left to me by a mother that didn't want her. And only six since she was last alive in those same arms. Persephone, my pride and joy..." A soft huff through his nose, mimicking a quiet laugh, and when Mementomori Malodrema finally turned, it was only part way, without the strength to meet the Tailor's gaze, simply watching his hands before him, perhaps afraid of the expression he might find, the judgement, the anger or fear or disgust. He hoped they were still listening. "She was... creative. My old flat's walls suffered the day she found the pastels. Too clever by half, reckless and observant and brilliant. A shining personality, firey and opinionated and set the melody for whatever room she found herself in. If I'm being honest, and I do hope you'll forgive me the comparison, you remind me of her in a lot of ways. Not every way, mind; you are- were- vastly different people and would only become more different, I'm sure, were she allowed to live past the age of ten. But I suppose the memory tucked in the back of the mind contributed to my... less than mature treatment of you, and for that I do apologize. It was not a conscious choice, but the heart of a father never truly withers, does it? I hope you can forgive me for growing unfairly attached."

Mori leaned over, slow and careful of his side, to press in a hidden door newly installed in the larger arm of the lounge. The door clicked and swung open, almost entirely unnoticeable until it did. Within were the Correspondence notes. "I had had some small interaction with the language before, but not enough to truly know what it was capable of. Turning it into the scarlet method of science, applying it to the anatomical field, in a way that is 'life-saving' and 'very impressive'. So our professor says. It is either this or quite literal gambling. Why not pursue both until I achieve a breakthrough? That, Tailor, is my 'madness', my project. To take the first step in curing otherwise permanent death. To bring back my daughter and, with hope, return her to a world, a home, a family that would welcome or at least ignore the crime against nature I had committed for her. And, perhaps, the people that I tell about it may one day forgive me."

They... reminded Mori of their daughter. Mori had 'grown unfairly attached'.

The pain in their chest grew more cavernous. Their jaw was tight. Something threatened to crush them, and so the Tailor did what they'd done from the beginning to bear pain:

They reshaped the bloody narrative and turned that hurt into fuel. Forced their softness back and pulled up their fierceness. Not a wall, just another facet: the one that understood drive. "If there is anything I truly understand, it's having a force propelling you forward despite all other rejections and failures. No matter what anyone thinks, or how they tell you it's not yours to have or take. If it's a crime, then whoever made the rules can hang."

If Mori were to look, they'd find a dark expression, something like anger but with sharp focus. Bitter, but careful. In their direction, but not aimed at them. The Tailor was thinking, fingers laced together in front of their face. Their teeth ground together.

"You'll crack this. If you know what you want and it drives you, then only time can stop you. I don't pretend to know much about the Red Science, or Correspondence, but I know your combinations with the language are already brilliant and potent."

Something was drifting through their skull, an old song sung on rooftops, but they couldn't place it. They'd need to think on it.

They closed their eyes, and though very little else on their face changed, that dark look was immediately gone.

"She sounds like she made you very, very happy. I'm sorry."

Mori looked up and at the Tailor as they spoke, listening carefully and attentively. A small smile traced his lips at the end, thinking back to better times. "She did. I never expected it, but being a father came so naturally, like something I was meant to do. If I win- when I win- and I bring her back, I want you to meet her. Regardless of the origin of attachment, I've come to think of you as a good friend. She would delight in meeting you, I'm certain."

They turned back down to their hands with a sigh. "In the meantime, I thank you for your confidence as well as your confidentiality. Not all would be so willing to accept the steps I've had to take and the ones further still to reach my goal. Tasteless. Some might even say immoral. But needs must and I greatly appreciate your support."

"The few who know are my spouses and the Maven and, now, you. And, as far as I am aware, the Emissary and the Professor both are clever enough to have gleaned something from my conversations with them. In the meantime, I have covered my tracks with the lie that I am going into poetry. An ongoing sense of morbid curiosity should justify my research into the medical and transitive sciences." Mori tucked the notes back into the arm of the fainting couch and sighed, hand moving to massage the uninjured parts of their side in an effort to relieve the pain. "My reckless attempt at immediate research has left me... disposed. Hence my Enoch's assignment to watch over me, as if I have not learned to brace against the wilds from my experience. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I believe Tularemia was right to bring you here. The truth, when given to someone who I know I can trust with it, is more relieving than previous experiences, those more similar to pulling teeth than removing weight."

Not the first to know this secret, either. That was reasonable. That was understandable. It should be enough that it was given freely and without coercion or force. The Tailor rubbed a hand over their face. The thing in their chest was an old familiar ache now, fed by their flare of anger and drive. It settled.

"Probably wise to lie, yes. I'll support it where I need to, obviously. I won't say I wish you told me sooner, but... You went into the marshes without a hunter and dealt with a wolf. Despite being married to a hunter who knows your goals. Mori..."

They wouldn't scold, and they wouldn't feel slighted. But they were a hunter too, they assumed Mori's partner had been able to tell on sight. Tularemia most certainly did. Trusted now with vital information, it was better to ~~be useful~~ prevent further mess.

"Please, should you need to do something so dangerous again, call on me. You have an ally with that regard."

Their hands dropped from their face. There was a real weariness now in their dark eyes. And that blasted song was still in their head, but they couldn't remember all the words.

"May I have some more tea?"

"Of course, allow me." Mori poured the next round of tea, careful and gentle and slow.

"I admit," they started, sitting back with their new cup, "I am aware of how foolish and stubborn I can be at times. One would think such a self-awareness would prevent such traits from superseding logic and reason, and yet..." A drink from the tea and a sigh. "This task is mine and mine alone, I'm afraid. With exception of my spouses, with whom I share all truths, any who know my task has been told by dreadful circumstance besides you. She is my daughter and it was my failure to save her that lost me that light. Orpheus walked alone with Eurydice behind him, none aiding his climb or reminding him not to turn or telling him of her appearance. My task will be a difficult one, but it is one that I must pursue alone."

One more cube of sugar was dropped into the cup and stirred in, Mori considering the way the ripples flowed through and around the tea spoon. "Or, perhaps, I have been misguided. It was the Queen of the Dead that felt moved by Orpheus' song and allowed him to receive the trial at all... But to ask for assistance in an area I had been able to successfully navigate before... It leaves much to be considered, though your offer for help will be remembered, I assure you. Thank you."

Mori did smile into a sip of his tea. "As well, I do appreciate you telling me of your skill, even vaguely, so that I need not perform ignorance of your secondary occupation any longer. Not in private, at least."

They accepted their cup and grimaced into it. "Speaking plainly is difficult at the best of times, when you can't tell how a person would react to your words. It's all implication with most people." Their scowl fell, eyes on the low table between them.

"There's expectation and misunderstanding. Am I a hunter that works as a tailor for a pastime? Am I a tailor who hunts as a hobby?" They shook their head. "It isn't one or the other. But to claw up society, one has to look the part. You know that."

The Tailor lightly angled the cup this way and that, watching the tea swirl round in it. "It's obvious if you know what to look for. But most people don't think to look. Not to mention a tailor isn't meant to be so..." they sighed and shook their head again, this time with real embarrassment. "So noticeable."

They'd really need to work on that.

A small scoff from Mori was directed into the air. "Yes, I am quite familiar with the inane rules and regulations of polite society and society at large for that matter. Your disdain is an understandable sentiment and, could I find method of communication and connection elsewhere, I would quite happily remove it from myself to live as I so please: picking and choosing the aesthetics and appeal of the norm over the strict guidelines and habits of its populace."

Mori took another sip of tea and turned back to his conversational partner, eyes still stained red at the edges, but otherwise calm enough to meet their gaze.

"I may not be much of a visual artist myself, but is it not the goal of the artist to be recognizable by their work? Is it not by your hand and your mind that astounding pieces of clothing are made? Not only that, is your work not, itself, a wandering acclaim to your talent, out in the public eye? Why would you not want to be noticeable?" It was a genuine question, out of curiosity and lack of understanding.

"But that's it, isn't it? The work is the thing that is recognized. The hand itself. The craftsman becomes known for that, not for--" They gestured, nearly sloshed their cup, and correctly sheepishly with a sip. They closed their eyes, and when they opened them, began again.

"You have to be able to control what people think about you. You have to know where to be subtle, so that when you decide to become noticeable, you make the biggest impact. And," they added, "if people aren't looking for you, if they don't see you, you learn more. You hear more secrets. How does a pickpocket get through a crowd in Spite? He looks like anyone else. How does a tailor make a piece for a client? They learn their measurements, their tastes and preferences, their dislikes, and if that body changes from something like weight gain or Shapeling Arts, a tailor is discrete enough not to draw attention to it. But they know."

They didn't know if they were making any sense. It was complicated.

"And... when I'm myself..."

("I'm not a pleasant person.")

"When I was a child, I was always middling of the bunch. I slipped by without attention drawn to me." Henry went off with the Face, the Gracious Widow selected sweet Gemma, Peter was adopted, and A-- "If I wasn't outright impossible, anyway. The lesson I came away with was that I should control when I'm noticed, and how I'm noticed, in which way. And yes, I know that sounds impossible and I can't control every small thought a person has on me, but I want to draw people's attention with the work I do, and not the person I am. The work is enough that people should know of me."

Mori nodded. "A selection of public opinion by only showing what you want them to see. It's not an unfamiliar concept. A lie of omission, though perhaps 'lie' is too strong a word. To curate what one sees and, thus, what one understands of a certain subject. Were I a hypocrite, I would say that such actions were needless and could not possibly bear fruit. I am no hypocrite, however. I recognize the value of changing faces, controlling one's own narrative, how one is perceived. You well know how guilty I am of such a ruse. Putting on nice clothes and a pleasant voice, choosing words carefully and making the right expressions at the right times. Like art, it puts forth to the world, to certain people, only the face you wish them to see, the one that will surely make them love you, that will surely make them understand what you're attempting to say, that will surely make them know you and care about you and understand why you are the way that you are, if you just choose the right character to play."

Mori glanced behind the Tailor, at the shelf of books. "And then you forget how to not be that character. You forget that you, yourself, are not the art. You forget how to stop the charade. Even you only know brief glimpses of who you actually are..."

Mori blinked, then chuckled. "I apologize terribly, I went on a bit of a ramble there! Take of it what you will; I don't mean to say that every attempt at putting up a front ends in tragedy, I originally meant to say that I understand the effort. I believe you should get to be both Tailor and Hunter, of course, but which way you lean and if you lean at all is wholly up to you. Take it from a Poet and Mortician, you will not need to choose only one. Just be aware of what you truly want under whatever mask you wear and I am certain you will prevail in what you choose. You already seem to have a rather extensive lead in both fields."

A worn and weary smile. Mori was always trying to understand, and impart advice, and for that they were grateful. They felt like, maybe, the Socialite didn't feel he had much opportunity to share of themself so much with others.

Or Mori was still in the habit of acting like a parent trying to gently guide a child. The smile fell in degrees, and they hid it behind their cup.

"I appreciate it. I wonder if, maybe, your rambling is an indication of you needing rest?" It was a light tease, but the hour was growing a little late. "Neither of us may have an assigned bedtime, but we both could at least do with a few hours of trying to pretend we're sleeping."

Yes, honestly after sitting in one spot for so long with little more than a cup of tea in their hands for distraction, the Tailor was finding the long hours of working and studying were finally trying to catch up to them. They didn't yawn, but they could feel the heaviness of the topics behind them sinking into their bones. They thumbed under an eye persistently.

The way he imparted advice did seem rather different from how he imparted lessons, more conversational, expecting something of a little back and forth. It was less 'teaching a child how to do a task' and more 'conversation with a friend turned heavy, one more experienced attempting to help the other'. Mature, a conversation, a sharing of the self, over the overly patient tone from before.

And then the Tailor mentioned sleeping.

It was so subtle, so easy to miss, but Mori hummed, a small smile creeping across their face as they took another sip. "Seeming awfully tired yourself, dear Tailor. Perhaps your body has been reminded how to be slow and find rest."

Good lord, the Tailor had been led into a trap. The flat was so quiet, the tone of their conversational partner so low and melodic, the lights low and dark, the tea warm and aromatic, and the armchair was so damn comfortable. Was the lampcat purring? It had curled up in a bare spot on the loveseat and its low, trilling noise was audible in the quiet of the flat. At some point in the conversation, Tularemia had given up her favorite spot on the armchair's head to the Tailor's, sleeping once more in their now mussed hair.

"I'll fetch some bedding for us," Mori said, groaning and wincing as he slowly got up, avoiding his bad side. "Which seat would you prefer as a bed? You seem quite settled into the armchair, but the loveseat is also a delight to lay in."

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