The Roman sun beat against the grey, oppressive walls of Regina Coeli, but inside the library, the air remained cool. It smelled of vanilla-scented decay and old parchment. Rose stepped through the heavy iron doors, her heels clicking a rhythmic, solitary beat on the polished marble. This room served as her sanctuary, a quiet bubble of intellect and silence floating in a sea of violence and desperation.

              She paused, watching dust motes dance in the shafts of light that pierced through the high, barred windows. As the head librarian, Rose held a position of quiet prestige. The private funding of the facility ensured a generous salary, allowing her to keep a sun-drenched apartment in Trastevere without a second thought toward the rent.