It is hard to tell just how much time you have spent in this bizarre Library cycle: a few weeks? Months? Years? However long it’s been, you just know it feels long.

Long.

More importantly, you are starting to realise that you have not had all that much social contact in some time, and it’s beginning to take a toll on you. You yearn for the times when every day meant a party, where pleasant laughter and conversation would dominate your mornings, afternoons, and evenings well into your nights. And you miss, dearly miss, meeting a new lord or lady, and being invited to their villa in some part or other of the lovely Mediterranean coast, taking in their residence’s beauty for the first time or, more often than not, getting to tear into it with your closest confidants back home.

You know you may not get Mediterranean villas here, of course, but your companion’s Personal Libraries will have to do. Gretch’s, Tenebrus’, and Pascale’s to start with. Surely, their lodgings will still have some charm to them, even if they cannot compare to yours.

The moment you step into Gretch’s Personal Library, however, you begin to regret this series of visits. In fact, you begin to regret every decision you have ever made that has resulted in you setting foot in this particular residence, if you can even call it that. You are standing in a squalid, rotting barn. All manner of worn books and faded pages lie scattered with no obvious sense of order, much less style. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see an abnormally large worm slithering away under the floorboards.

This the library of Gretch the Noble?!

Your host, however, is courteous enough. After sharing some initial small talk, he offers you a place to sit, a rickety chair that, from the looks of it, is just rotten enough to likely break under your weight – and considering that you are wearing a lovely pair of white leotards, you politely tell him that you would rather stand. A little while later, the conversation turns to the terrible events that took place at Hiro’s Hoot House, and you see Gretch gesture at a terrible, crossbow-like machine he has propped up in a corner.

“Ey, but the Gretchinator really did a number on that Snakey, dontcha think?” He says with a proud smile. “Been doin’ some target practice on the rats that come out o’ that corner o’er there lately if ya fancy a shot–”

In a flash, you turn heel and head out the door, barely able to mumble a poorly-crafted excuse about being late for something or other. You conclude that Gretch is a fabulously entertaining speaker, yes, but that your lifestyles just… do not match, let’s say.

Up next, Tenebrus! How much worse can this one possibly be? You think to yourself, confidently walking up to Tenebrus’ door.

Well, at least when it came to Gretch there was a room to judge. Here… you wonder if the piles of ash and broken pillars that make up Tenebrus’ lodgings could even be called as much. Gretch’s Personal Library was ruinous, but these are actual ruins! It makes you feel rather sad, actually, walking around such a perfectly destroyed temple. All the knowledge, the beauty that has surely been lost here… it makes your heart shiver.

Still, it seems like Tenebrus has been busy trying to restore at least some of this library to its former glory. Some scrolls and tablets have been recovered partially or full, and are being kept carefully flat atop the stumps left behind by pillars.

Amongst these, you can see Tenebrus pacing around, holding a scroll and reciting a poem repeatedly, almost feverishly – which is a shame, really, for the piece’s literary craft is very pleasing to your ear. It reminds you of the greats – Homer, Ovid, Vergil – but, to your surprise, these verses are completely unknown to you. You could ask Tenebrus for the author, of course, but while he tries to be inviting, he is clearly surprised at your visit, and you get the feeling that he would much rather be left alone to his reading.

Well then, so be it. You will just have to ask for the full manuscript, alongside the authors’ name, at a later date.

So, finally: Pascale.

You’ve been looking forward to this one more than any of the others, saving it for last like a child saves their favourite treat for dessert. You just know a lady with such gorgeous handwriting must have a wonderful taste in room décor – and indeed, you are absolutely correct.

A large curtained bed, an orderly desk covered in alchemical supplies and a mirror, a bookshelf placed ever-so-tastefully beside a sizable arched window: Pascale’s library – no, bedroom – is everything you could have hoped for and more. There is so much to see here, so much beauty to behold. Every corner of it is a piece of art, with ostentatious whites and golds dominating its colour palette. Belladonnas and foxgloves have been painted onto the walls with utmost care, you can tell, and above the bed hangs a painting of a pale rider on a white horse, the craft of which is so life-like that his eyes almost seem to follow you as you prance around the room. Pascale’s wardrobe also doesn’t go unnoticed, and you can’t help but try to picture what wonders such an elegant piece of furniture might house. The one element you might remove from this room yourself is a large grandfather clock which, while exquisitely made, ticks much too loudly for your liking – but after having visited Gretch’s and Tenebrus’ Personal Libraries, you are very much not one to complain.

To your delight, Pascale is an equally fashionable host. Upon entry, she immediately offers you a place to sit: an impeccably comfortable chair that you wish you could steal for your own Personal Library. The two of you chat for a while, a pleasant discussion of art and philosophy, but you notice your eyes keep shifting from your charismatic host to her seemingly-even-more charismatic wardrobe. Just what manner of superb textiles could it be hiding? You think you are being subtle about your hidden desires, just waiting until the best moment to seamlessly slip a sneaky request into conversation, but just as you are congratulating yourself on your social prowess, Pascale speaks up.

“I have noticed your gaze shifting towards my wardrobe throughout our conversation, monsieur. Would you like a closer look?”

You immediately take her up on her offer and, as the wardrobe doors open before you, your jaw proverbially drops. Dress upon dress upon dress meet your eyes, all made of the finest materials imaginable: silk, velvet, the whitest of cottons. The designs are fantastic too, ranging from the regalest manteaus to the most beautiful of casual gowns.

But what takes hold of your fancies the most are the wigs. Dozens of them laid neatly on guarded shelves. You find them in many a style and colour, but your eyes mainly fall on a curly wig which has been unassumingly tucked to the side. It is a pale blonde, almost white shade, and you know from how stiffly the hair holds itself in place that it is of fantastic quality, as well as deceptively tall – Pascale has been playing with angles quite cleverly, you can tell. With wide eyes, you picture the wig on your head, how fabulous you’d look, just how well it would cover up that pesky little bald spot of yours.

“You have quite a keen eye, don’t you?” Pascale interjects and, as if reading your mind, brings the wig down for you. “Do try it on, if it pleases you.”

And oh, it pleases you. With that wig on your head, you look absolutely magnificent. It is ornate. Flamboyant. Pompous.

Perfect.

And it does wonders for that bald spot too!

“Madame Pascale, this fantastic wig, would I–”

“Yes, you may borrow it,” she interrupts with a slight smile. “Just… do not forget who leant it to you.”

You have never felt more elated. How you’ve missed having friends in high places!