Rather than being made uneasy by the walls of austere faces, he was quite curious about each of them. Their names, embossed in bronze plagues beneath each portrait, held little meaning or interest to him but for the surname: Valdemar. How strange that they had dwindled down to just the one man standing before him. The weight of their stares was almost certainly far greater on L's shoulders than his own but he had never seen him buckle. Even now, his face remained impassive, unperturbed by this immense pressure.

But that wasn't the sole reason for his dawdling; talking in the presence of such a stern audience was preferable to being locked away in a study. At least here, should either one of them feel the need to quietly slip away, they could do so without much performance.

"It's about the trunks I have stored on the third floor," he said, hoping to stop him before he reached the far doors, "They mostly contain my old military equipment and uniforms and so on but some of the things I brought with me from London are there too." A pause. "Father's things."