The rain outside Manor van der Pijl had not subsided; if anything, it had grown more feral. The rhythmic thrum of water against the ulin timber roof sounded like thousands of spectral fingers clawing for entry, as if the Kalimantan sky were attempting to drown the lingering scent of the colonials Nala had just expelled. Inside the library, the atmosphere was no less suffocating. The flickering oil lamps cast elongated shadows that danced between the thousands of leather-bound volumes, which stood like rows of silent headstones.
Nala stood like a monolith before a massive teak bookshelf that occupied the entire eastern wall. To his right, Mayangkara held an oil lamp with a steady hand, her golden skin glowing in the amber light. To his left stood Carmelia, her breath hitching in the damp,
