[ Matt sets down the teacup in favor of the leatherbound volume. He handles the book as carefully as if it were a small, skittish animal, gently flipping it open to the first readable page.

Oh, hell, is this Middle English? Even Matt's Sanskrit is better than his grasp on the early days of the English written word. But that frustration is only a brief glimmer in his mind, quickly overtaken by how impressed he is with the book itself. He flips through, delighted to see text on every single page. The lettering may be frustrating, with all its F-looking Ses, but it's gorgeous; it looks like the kind of thing a monk would spend weeks or months on, toiling away on a little piece of God's great plan. Matt turns his attention back to the words themselves, squinting to make out the prominent ones that appear to be the title and author. Of the wretched ... engendering of mankind ... ]

--Chaucer?

[ This comes out close to a yelp. Matt's gaze snaps back to Sebastian, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. ]

Chaucer, [ he says. An incredulous smile tugs at his lips. ] So you have an eidetic memory. I mean--that's what they would've called it where I come from, the label probably doesn't matter.

This is fucking amazing.