Susan leads him to the room with all the rugs. "This is my favorite place here," she admits, as she nudges the door open with her hip. Not a single rug has disappeared with the change in the season: she's unrolled each and every one in her time here, just to look at the designs. The alcohol she mostly keeps tucked under a monstrosity in the corner: enormous and garish and too loosely-woven to easily roll up (neither she nor Galahad will recognize the make of it, but it's a hot pink and electric orange shag rug), it makes a lovely cover for a lot of bottles.