The library was, as always, a sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves groaned under the weight of centuries of knowledge, bound in leather and gold leaf. The scent of aged paper and beeswax polish filled the air, a comforting aroma that usually calmed Ashford's restless mind. Tonight, however, it offered little solace. He stood before a window overlooking the manicured gardens, the moon painting silver streaks across the meticulously arranged rose bushes. His thoughts, as they had been for days, were consumed by Montaigne.