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Following the East Cloister, a passage lined with gas lamps in the shape of torches, clutched in fists of molded brass, one will happen upon a set of steps to the left, and a door to the right... best, perhaps, to investigate the entrance that seems most welcoming at the time.
Six quick steps lead down to the recessed floor of the library... a vast vault, given the illusion of depth by that drop, this room is high enough to support a gallery around the top.
 All along the upper balcony are racks and rows of books... books of all sorts... everything from Baudelaire to Yeats, and all names betwixt and between... old and new... some with covers tattered and threadbare... some of pristine pasteboard...
Over the railings and down below lies an oblong rug some twelve feet across and three times as long, stretching nearly to the perimeters of the hardwood floor... reading tables line one wall, plush parlor chairs the other (save the space reserved for a pianoforte that will reside there some day)...
And that incessant tick-tick-ticking? The rhythm that forms a subtle undercurrent to the lazy whoosh of a draft? The clicking of a grandfather clock in the corner, with suns and moons and stars on its face (and a dial supporting thirteen numbers, not the usual twelve), and a curious claw-footed pendulum that casts shadows on the wainscoting as it swings back and forth...
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