Don Juan found someone else to dance with after he separated from her, though his attention never left her for more than a minute. When he eventually looked for her and didn't find her, he started planning his own departure from the room.

She was already in the library when he slipped in. He shut the door behind him with practice stealth, but made a point to clear his throat before he came further into the room. He wasn't trying to startle her; rather to mask any noise from the rest of the house.

"Have you seen her yet?" he asked, eyes alight. He didn't wait for a response before reaching out to take her hand — a bold gesture, but one he didn't have to second-guess if they were alone in a library together. He pulled her deeper into the room. The room was divided into two main areas; the larger space the door opened into, lined with shelves, and a recessed alcove about half the size that featured a chaise and a few armchairs flanked by end tables for reading. In this secondary space, mostly shielded from the door, was the sculpture he'd been referencing as the centerpiece (though it wasn't exactly central to the library, as the word implied).

"Erato. The Muse of lyrical poetry," he explained. She was made of white stone, in the Roman fashion, and naked except for a bit of draped fabric that covered one shoulder, one knee, and a few spaces in between. She was in a half-reclined position with a lyre leaning against her stomach. Her fingers moved soundlessly against the strings; a rhythmic enchantment. Her head lilted gently to the music she wasn't making. Her eyes were closed in peaceful concentration, her lips slightly parted.

"What do you think?" he asked Mrs. Yaxley in a hushed tone, as though he was reluctant to disturb the Muse.

---