Sanctum - Waiting in the wings, a small respite

Mr. Grey’s exoplasm had disappeared as soon as the Norseman had brought them in; her new clothes were as fresh as they had been when she left Lazarus’s.
It was kind of him to provide rooms for Mr. Rimes and If – their currently living arrangements were no greater than a park bench at present. She was sure, had Herr Mull not taken care of her needs, a room would have also been provided for her as well.   She continued up the stairs and walkway of metal grating, aisles of bookshelves towered overhead. Some books had runes and others languages she didn’t recognize.   When she reached the top ledge a small balcony protruded out with a clear line of sight to the queer light overhead – a pale sky blue dome shone down onto them all, but oddly simulated daylight. She realized how high she had come; she could see the men down below seated on the couches around the runic circle. They would ask what Ragnar said and she would need to decide what to tell them.

She would not tell them of the continual throb on her wrist until it was time to do so.

    An aisle of bookcases lay open behind her; these titles were well known to her – Verne, Austen, Shelley, Keats, Collins, D’Annunzio, her series of penny dreadfuls – all were written in either French or Italian, even if they had never been published in the language.   At the end of the aisle was a door, above it was her full name – Emilia Josette Ratavoloira – on it was a card written:  

Miss Ratavoloira,

I knew you’d prefer to be away from the men.

- R

  She turned the ornate handle in the oak door in a similar design of the cared doors of the villa in Geneva. The sound of a hearth fire and the warmth met her along with the crackling song on a record.   …mold our emotions just to please them.   A grand phonograph stood on an oriental side table projecting strains of a lovely song in a form she had yet to hear before – this must be the new music.   I am cold; can you hear?   On the walls were photos of all the cities she had ever visited. She was uncertain how these photographs could have been attained, unware of any vantage point in those cities to achieve the particular view.   I will fly, with no, no fear.   There was no bed, for what purpose could she derive from such a thing? There was a velvet lilac chaise-lounge under the photograph of the Eiffel Tower.   And the ground taunts my wings   A plate of krumiri and dish of zabaione were on the coffee table before the chaise next to a photo album.   She began to peruse the pictures… one of her parents… one of her… one of Agathe… their villa, their garden, Geneva, Lausane, Milan… then there he was in all his beauty – strong chin, dark eyes, hair that curled, physique of Adonis: all that appealed to her – Arturo.   She closed the book and pushed it away; that was a ghost she didn’t wish to see.   Plummet as I sing, plummet as I sing…