As you pick up the journal, the music stops. You look up with a gasp.
You are no longer in the Guardian’s bibliotheca. In fact, you are not sure where you are at all.
It is a small room overlooking Maris Exsilii, and the wide window has no windowpanes. The breeze that comes in is warm, bearing a soft floral scent. The room is lit with a gentle, warm glow and you turn to find more than one hurricane lamp on a low bookcase. There is no one here, but there is a desk, and there is a chair.
You sit down, and decide that since you’d gone to all that trouble, you might as well read.