"S'long as it's not a Dostoyevsky first edition or somethin' daft like that, yeah," Nix tells him dryly. "C'mon, it's just down here."

The grubby little door she shoves open looks as though it belongs to a set of flats, but turns out to open on a shadowy little Aladdin's cave of books from floor to ceiling, with an extra mezzanine of even older-looking tomes reached by a rickety-looking stepladder. Unlike its door, the shop is spotlessly clean, but badly-lit: the windows are as full of books as the rest of the place, so the only light comes from a few more stray strands of fairy lights and a naked bulb in the middle of the ceiling. As of yet, there's no sign of a proprietor.

"Should've brought a torch..." Nix mutters to herself, closing the door and turning to peer into the gloom. "Oi! Ottaline! You about?"

For the moment, there is no apparent response.