And since, despite the world's admitted tendency towards situations best left in the more dramatic varieties of literature, it wasn't literally a stereotypical gothic novel, Kanimir didn't expect anything in particular to happen. If nothing else, there were far more storms that happened to happen at night than there were potentially literature-worthy shenanigans. So it's completely reasonable for him to be curled up in his grand library, enjoying a book on magical theory.
"Ah. Well, even if I do manage to solve this puzzle, which I suspect I shall, it won't be immediately. Would you like one of the guest rooms made up?"
So he leads her down several hallways to a hall filled with doors with numbers on them. "Fifteen, three and seventeen are occupied for the moment, but pick whichever of the others you want and I'll set it up."
She goes a little ways down the hall and then says, "I think I like number ten best."
So he leans in and utters a short, glottal set of syllables. A small amount of dust rises from various surfaces and disperses, various linens rearrange themselves, and a handful of other changes take place.
"What you see is not the rawest form of magic, but rather a condensation of intricate rituals which correspond directly to functional arcane aspects."
"It's nothing like any kind of magic I've ever heard of before. I'm almost surprised they use the same word. For that matter, there's never been a Translator talent, and I have no idea how one would work if there was..."
"Perhaps it is merely that they use similar energies. After all, your door left residue that my analysis recognized as magic."
"I'm not sure if that makes any sense either. They're so different."
"I'm not a scholar of selfspace," she says, shaking her head. "I only know what most everybody does."
"Well, suffice to say that things which appear extremely dissimilar on the surface may share underlying principles."
"Most of the relevant characteristics are too small for the human eye to see."