Behind the door is a bedroom, dominated by the four-poster bed against the far wall. In what space remains, is a tall and finely decorated armoire and a triptych mirrored dressing table.

A glance beneath the bed's heavy quilt earns you nothing but dust in your eyes, and a cursory investigation into the armoire's contents is equally fruitless. Finally you come to the dressing table. Drawer one is empty. Drawer two contains some dried out makeup. Drawer three, however, actually contains something of note; a diary. It is empty, save for one single page, filled to the margins with writing. It's strange, you think, but stranger still are the frayed torn out pages partially adhered to the book's spine even after being ripped out. Is it a replica of a diary from the safe? Is it an edited version of the memoirs, left unfinished? Did the author use the torn out pages for something else?

Whatever the intention was, you can only work with as much as you've got. Right now, that's the single page in front of you. You settle down at the vanity table and gather what you can from the meagre information you have to hand.