10th February, 1892 — Flourish & Blotts, Diagon Alley
He was turning twenty-six tomorrow. His birthday was perhaps his least favourite day of the year, every year – it made a sort of dreadful, drawn out, slow countdown of the rest of whatever he had left to live.
And maybe the sickness he always felt in these couple of weeks was partially dread, his symptoms psychosomatic; maybe they were physical, because he’d had such restless sleep always seeing it, or because the death dreams were seeping into his days – or maybe he just had so few birthdays left that this was the beginning of it.
But he’d had business meetings at work earlier he couldn’t just skip; he didn’t want to loll around listlessly at home, and face his parents’ questions; and perhaps if he walked all the way home through the streets of London he’d tire himself out enough that he might have a sliver of a chance of fitful sleep. So Savino had stopped in a Diagon Alley bookshop to pick up a book order he had made. He’d browsed the top floor and begun to make his way back down the creaky flight of stairs at the front of the shop, but got halfway and felt a strange stabbing pain. Just in his head, he thought – but his hand shook and the books fell out from under his arm before he could stop them. Savino tried to lurch after them before he made a scene, but in his haste – or in the sudden spell of dizziness, or the abrupt spasm in his leg – he lost his balance completely, and toppled down the last few stairs directly into someone.
And maybe the sickness he always felt in these couple of weeks was partially dread, his symptoms psychosomatic; maybe they were physical, because he’d had such restless sleep always seeing it, or because the death dreams were seeping into his days – or maybe he just had so few birthdays left that this was the beginning of it.
But he’d had business meetings at work earlier he couldn’t just skip; he didn’t want to loll around listlessly at home, and face his parents’ questions; and perhaps if he walked all the way home through the streets of London he’d tire himself out enough that he might have a sliver of a chance of fitful sleep. So Savino had stopped in a Diagon Alley bookshop to pick up a book order he had made. He’d browsed the top floor and begun to make his way back down the creaky flight of stairs at the front of the shop, but got halfway and felt a strange stabbing pain. Just in his head, he thought – but his hand shook and the books fell out from under his arm before he could stop them. Savino tried to lurch after them before he made a scene, but in his haste – or in the sudden spell of dizziness, or the abrupt spasm in his leg – he lost his balance completely, and toppled down the last few stairs directly into someone.
