The black cloth yields readily as you draw it back, crawling through the small opening concealed behind. The room you find is not an extension of the labyrinth, nor a cold stone room as you might have guessed. It's warm, and filled with books.
Gleaming oak panels reach near midway up the room's height before giving way to deep maroon walls. A desk sits off to one side, a rather large desk. Surprisingly, it's rather messy too. Sketches lie here and there, scattered carelessly over it's surface. Black and golden ink glints in the sunlight that streams through a small window to the right, held in wells that prop up owl feather quills and golden tipped brushes. Books and obviously aged sketch books rest in contrastingly orderly piles against smooth shelves made entirely of wrought iron, their ends hold candles of reds and blues. Some of the candles are lit, and appear to have been so for some time, for tracks of wax run down the iron of a few of the shelves like hardened lava. Nearest to you, on the seat of an ornate red velvet chair rests a book with pencil stowed in between the pages. Behind you, where the hole was stands a door. Not just any door,but a door of wood as dark as shadow. Perhaps it is a shadow. No, it can't be for it's handle glints white.
