No one disturbs her. The light gradually increases, long before dawn, so it's a pleasant, soft level to read at, but it doesn't seem that the outside light has gotten any brighter.

It takes some time for her to notice, but she does, eventually, and reflexively listens to her surroundings to determine what's going on without giving any external sign of it.

It's quiet. There's a soft sound of books turning in the distance. A few candle flames. The hum of electric lights. Someone muttering poetry to themselves, far off.

That's not good, actually. It's bad. Very bad.

The exit is missing, and that's even worse.

The bathroom is still there, and still unoccupied. She leaves the book on the chair and brings her coat and backpack to it; it'll do as a temporary refuge while she figures out what's going on.

The library is rather polite about leaving her to her thoughts!

It's also quiet library sounds for a long way around her -

Except she can hear voices, soft chatter, now, midway through her range. They don't seem to be moving, but are rather talking about someone recently returned from the depths.

She keeps half an ear on them, more interested in mapping her new surroundings for the moment but not wanting to miss it if they begin discussing something more interesting.

The layout is definitely different than it was when she came her. Larger, stretching both far above her head and far below her feet. As far as she can hear, it's books.

Somebody's pocket dimension, presumably - a big one, if it stretches all the way to the edges of her range. It's really weird that she got sucked into it without any warning or confrontation, but there's nothing she can do about that now.

She turns her attention more fully toward the people still talking off a couple miles away; she picks a bolthole closer to them, but not too close - maybe half a mile from the reading area they're camping in - and sets off on a path that mostly doesn't take her too far from defensible hiding places.

This is doable!

This area of library quickly becomes far less modern, fading into heavier woods and cloth bound books, which give way for solemn leather spines with no lettering and collections of twine-bound pages. It sounds different, of course, the echoes softer. The edge of her range reveals somewhere more open, with a lot more than eight people, as she approaches the small group near her.

She doesn't touch the books, but she does look at them, as they change to unfamiliar materials, hoping for clues as to what sort of place this is. The lack of titles is a little worrying, but she continues on, holes up in her chosen alcove, and turns her attention to the nearby conversation in earnest.

Discussion of food stores for the next expedition, discussion of trade with the nearest village, discussion of Kamilin swears she saw a ghost in the depths... Do they want to go to the village for food, or try seeing if any of that book of poetry still has its sparkle - that poem Peneli loves to read for them is really beautiful, but it's just started making such bland food...

Con...cern? She keeps listening.

Also, none of them have the talent for reading out proper medications; she doesn't care what you think, Amati, we need antibiotics, not just bandages, if we're risking injury...

It's so hard, though, finding an engaging medical text, really, and it's almost never that something comes up and they can't just get to the nurse-witch...

Bad!

The conversation winds down a bit from there, looping back to things they've recently read and enjoyed.

She keeps listening for a little while, backs off to a slightly more defensible nook, makes a light meal of things from her emergency supplies, sleeps.

No one approaches her while she sleeps, though a few groups of varying size pass by the edges of her range.

And, several hours later, she wakes up.

She's still here, wherever here is. Are the people where she left them?

They're all awake, now, instead of just two of the eight, and seem to have decided to head over to the village for supplies. 

She follows, at a slightly slower pace, keeping an eye out for anything that looks like a poetry section.

Shortly before reaching the village, they pass by an area with colorful cloth spines stamped with metallic lettering, and narrower books - and indeed many of them seem to be poetry. Miss Agatha's Collection of Whimsy; A Pocket Full of Poesy; The Collected Poems of Erilion Iyinti; several other volumes of 'complete works;' The Wolf at Red Dawn Hill, and other poems; Odes and Epodes... Plus some Rescue might recognize - Emily Dickenson cozies up next to Emil-yani Arrel; The Wasteland shares a shelf with The World in the Lens; Beowulf glares across the aisle at Ides, Aglaecwif.

She's not nearly well read enough to recognize any of those but Dickinson. She stops to go through the section, picking books nearly at random and reading the table of contents, and then a poem or two if there's anything that looks likely to be the sort she likes, evocative of both emotion and sense. Between books, she checks the area, being careful not to lose track of her location again even as she reads.

The people she'd been following mostly stay on the outskirts of the village, not really entering too far in as they negotiate knowledge for listening rights - 

Until there's a feast called, which the new people are welcome to. They'll be reading a new composition, even! They've been experimenting with designing new foods, lately...

That gets her attention. She sets her book aside and listens in.

The words are normal, though the poetry is lovely, evocative and detailed -

And the food it's describing start to appear before the people listening, fading slowly into existence, the first senses described becoming apparent first, the first foods described starting to appear first -

Including in front of Rescue.