In the room of books and old places. A grey-haired, bespectacled, white-bearded man coughs. It echoes. She opens the cover of a volume with a gold pelican embossed on its blue linen binding, turns the pages quickly, flipping past the copyright page—1886—past words to images—bold, black ink prints. A shaky corner becomes the sea, once unfamiliar. Here there are no snow-capped peaks, no red down coats and wobbling fiberglass skis, no “warning: be prepared to survive 24-48 hours on your own in case of blizzard” signposted before hiking trails. A spiked crest is the scent of pine like eucalyptus, like Cezanne, only colder, more distant. As if the arced wing of eagle, the wide wafting wind upswung lifting out held her suspended in its claw. Below, gurgling between jagged stone, flint and granite, a spring runs downward. The figure beside the figure who watches the figure. The man glances at the girl, at the book stalled in her slim hands. The book looking back at the girl now looking at the man. The clock which passes from 4 to 4:01.