[Twenty-nine. His frown is a small, reflexive thing. Is that more or less than he'd been anticipating? He finds he isn't certain, only that for some reason he finds the number unpleasant. Too many for a rounding error; too few to be deliberate. Even if the reality were twice that number—

The pause has stretched out long enough that it seems for a moment that he might not answer. Then:]

They come in all shapes and sizes. [He says it with no deliberation, a habitual jab. The real and more measured answer follows in its shadow.] They are like to the contents of any college's library. History, and sciences. Dull papers and various texts of the arcane. Why?