Exploration
The cottage - if it could actually be called one - was bigger than Karen had expected when looking from outside. As if to emphasize this point, she walked into the hall and found that the nearest door was much further away than she'd thought. Near the end of a long hall she could see a simple wood door, nearly a twin to the front door. It seemed to be in much better condition, though, not exposed to the elements as the front door was. The hall split slightly right before the unremarkable door, however, and Karen considered that might be where the sound was coming from. She could not see terribly far in front of her, as the candlelight that came from a number of stone sconces was swallowed up by dark wall tapestries, but she began walking forward cautiously with pistol at the ready.
The single door she ignored, and followed the hall's turn to the right. There were two more doors to her right, in much the same shape as the others - the nearest appeared to be made of the same slate stone that she had seen elsewhere in the house, with no visible means of opening it, and the furthest some sort of glass, perhaps? It was blue and green, quite a lovely mix of colors really, and Karen was halfway ready to open it when her eyes caught and held on the giant set of double doors that were to her left. They were cunningly carved, seeming as a mass of branches that had interwoven, and the creator had even thought to include flowers (paper or light enamel? they looked delicate) budding from the tips in white and pink splendor. Setting aside thoughts of the cottage's other occupant for a moment, Karen reached her empty hand out to brush fingertips against the nearest blossom (I just want to touch it a little), and almost immediately drew her hand back in horror.
Real, it was real. It was real and growing from the branch that was a door and oh God I was right about the magic! I can smell it, it's an apple blossom, oh God.
She drew back from the doors, two and then three steps until her back was pressed up against the cool stone of the door opposite it. Don't turn around and run out of here. We know what's waiting outside. Breathe, slow, in and out. Breathe.
She allowed herself a few moments - to breathe, to panic, to berate herself (stupid, stupid! I knew it was magic, how else would The Beast be kept out but by magic?) - and that thought brought her up short. That The Beast was evil was a fact that every villager knew. Must then this magic not be good, because it kept The Beast at bay? She'd read as many stories of sorcery and bewitching as she could get her hands on, and it would certainly stand to reason (as though reason were of any use where magic was concerned). It would be no good to be frightened away by a bit of friendly magic.
With much more trepidation than before, she approached the doors again. The apple blossoms smelled heavenly, and though it may have been just her imagination she would swear that each flower turned its face toward her when she drew near. Inhaling sharply, she reached for the door handle (or where the damned thing would be if this wan't some sort of crazy witch apple door) and once again found herself stepping back as both doors began to swing outwards, propelled by some invisible force.
Did those doors just read my mind?
She did not have long to linger on that unsettling notion, however, because the sight that greeted her through the open doors stole her breath and any other thoughts she may have had.
I have never seen so many books in all my life.
Indeed, as she stepped through the doors (still creepy) she could scarcely believe her eyes. The wall in front of her and the wall to her right had massive bookshelves that were tight-packed with all manner of volumes. They nearly reached the ceiling, and the whole room was illuminated not only by a veritable sea of candles but also by a skylight, a bright dome that stretched up towards the heavens just like a...tree. She stopped short.
There are three damn trees INSIDE THE HOUSE. Magic shit.
Indeed, there was a tree at the end and the beginning of each bookshelf (yew, I think?), three in total. Each was stretching towards the sky as trees do, but each was also...curiously intertwined with the bookshelves. Letting out a huff of frustration (are we scared of trees now?), Karen stepped close enough to confirm what she had originally thought; each branch that did not reach skyward, some hollow with age, stretched along the bookshelf to act as a sort of living ladder. She could see how the top shelves could be accessed by climbing up the trunk and on to a small ledge just above the highest point. The lower branches seemed to twine around, and possibly into, the other levels - she could see a tantalizing glit-edged copy of The Arabian Nights' Entertainment that would require at least one branch, perhaps two to reach, but her fingers itched to try.
She should not set the pistol down, though, and that thought that was ultimately what prevented her from launching herself two branches deep into a novel adventure. It was luck or the magic that lived in the cottage walls that had her turning just when she heard the soft tread of footsteps entering the room. She whirled around to face the person who'd come up behind her so quietly and, rattled, Karen almost shot the man on site.
He was not fair, no, built overmuch like a sturdy plow-horse with a sloping brow and a bulbous nose. Big, broad hands empty of weapons. Face bruised and cut, bloodied, probably recently. No sword, pistol, or dagger visible on his person. Hands out, empty, placating, he looked...like she knew him, somehow. She was, at it happens, not entirely wrong.