It is a surprisingly light book, given its size. About two hands wide, and the height of three. It has a thick cover of aged brown leather, gilt with shimmering letters of green and gold. There are several gemstones set into its surface, and several empty places where loose stones were lost. It smells old and musty, but there’s a hint of the spice from your favorite dish, and sometimes you catch a faint whiff of the flowers your mother used to gather from her garden. There is something very familiar about it, but there is also something decidedly exotic. You get the strange notion that you’ve always had it buried somewhere, and only recently rediscovered it. These paradoxical feelings are unsettling, and your instincts tell you that there is something important and dangerous about this book. It is not to be treated casually. You run your hands over its smooth leather cover and wonder how many ages have worn its face. There is a brass lock which holds the book shut, and when you try carefully to pry it open, it does not budge. So, you put the book away again for another time.