With a sigh of relief that borders on the obscene, you lean back in your chair, letting the charcoal stick in your fingers slip from your fingers and bounce once, twice, three times on your wooden desk before eventually coming to a stop. Your desk is a mess, parchment and lists strewn everywhere, muffin crumbs all over everything, dozens of books and charts left half open and in haphazard stacks around the corners of your writing space. Your lantern burns dim, guttering as its fuel begins to run out.