Of course, you think…the East Tower…is the tallest of them…
"Oooh ooh ahh," says Brute as you finally get your luggage to the fourth floor, where the Vice Steward told you your quarters have been prepared.
You rest your back against the cool gray stones, chest inflating and deflating like a bellows pumped by an overzealous child. The halls are narrow here, with low ceilings and torches only as afterthoughts every three horse-lengths or so. Down the hall, you catch sight of a freckled maid leaving a room—yours?—and heading towards you.
"Begging your pardon," she says, dipping her head as she approaches you.
"No, I beg yours," you say, wrinkling your face as you pantomime smelling your armpits. "I cut a more respectable figure when bathed, I promise."
She titters and disappears down the staircase. You look down the hall, where your open room seems to beckon. You take a deep breath.
"Oooh ooh ooh!"
"Yes, I know we'd go faster if I let you out," you snap at the ape. "But I'd prefer to go slowly in the correct direction, if it's all the same to you."
Somehow, that silences the beast. You hold your breath and drag the luggage the final few dozen steps to your quarters.
Onward