Numerous candles set into candelabras and lanterns hang from the ceiling. Real candles, not electric bulbs like those in the hall. They shed a warm golden light in the room, which does little to chase away the chill and the dampness of the place. On the floor is a heavy Oriental rug stretching nearly from wall to wall. There are several pieces of furniture that would not have been out of place in the house of somebody’s grandmother: a red velvet settee, several overstuffed chairs, and a few small tables of dark wood and clawed feet. Bunches of fragrant herbs hang from racks along the wall, filling the room with a strong scent of musk and spice. On one of the small tables sits an antique recordplayer holding what looks like an actual vinyl record grinding out some slow and quiet classical music with a great number of violins and mournful cellos. I don’t recognize the piece.