He found himself on the Caribbean Sanctuary, in the small chamber with the Oracle book. Sea breeze swept through the small windows of the room, and he took a step towards the lectern on which the open book rested. The pages displayed had a few words written on them rather than the constantly shifting writing that normally scrawled itself across the pages. He felt himself compelled towards the book even as his fight-or-flight instinct reared up.
Rostov, leaning his head on both hands, sat at the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine, and littered with cards.