"Dingle? As in, dingle-dangle? You have got to be joking."

For someone with as much pride as Rowena has, she doesn't rankle at all by being directed by a teenager named Dingle. In fact, she almost seems glad for it. It's not that she isn't capable, but she is overwhelmed, and is smart enough to know that her brand of academics will likely find only ill purchase here.

How interesting, though, that he can't give her his full name - that by his claim, he can't even write it. As scared and frustrated as Rowena is with this entire situation, she can't help but bask in the feeling of awe at such a complex and comprehensive work of - well, it must be magic. The glitching local history books are hardly a flaw so much as evidence of the artisanship that must have gone into this level of reality-warping, like seeing the tiniest cracks in a statue that boast what a fragile and ambitious material it was to work with at all. She pauses, hating being temporarily blind to the supernatural forces around her, and takes a glitching book and a black and white book.

"What do you make of this?"