text: [Themes: Adventure, Fallen London, treasure hunt]
  
  > give the handwritten book
  (to Mr. Pages)
  Mr. Pages snatches the book from you, squirrelling it away in the
  folds of his robes. "You'll get your reward in due time," he hisses.
  "All in due time." He doesn't seem like he's planning on destroying it
  any time soon. Perhaps he really is the book collector his name makes
  him out to be.
  
  With the book firmly in the claws of Mr. Pages, your job is done. Your
  reward should arrive in 5-7 business days, and after that? Well, you
  don't know. Perhaps Pages will simply add the book to his collection,
  and it will never again see the light of day. Perhaps he's got bigger
  plans in store. Or perhaps the book didn't contain anything he didn't
  already know. This hardly matters to you, though. You're about to be a
  very rich Detective.
  
  End your journey here? (You will be able to reverse this decision.)
  
  > Yes
  assuaged when the money from Mr. Pages arrives on your doorstep, crate
  by heavy crate. It's a drop in the bucket for something like him, but
  for you it's enough to live not only comfortably, but glamorously. And
  that's only the beginning of it. Soon, other high-profile individuals
  start to make requests of you, each one taking you ever higher, ever
  closer to the shadowy bats at the very top.
  
  You don't hear from Euclid again. If he's happy with what happened to
  his book, if he feels betrayed, you never do find out. Not that it's
  really his book any more. It belongs to Mr. Pages now, along with the
  valuable knowledge inside. You're useful to the bats, and that means
  Pages trusts you enough to show you a little of what he's learned. He
  can move like Euclid, when he wants to.
  
  They talk about new cities sometimes. About bringing them 'down' to
  wherever London is, crushing it and its citizens 'under' their
  metropolitan weight. But that's not for a long time. You take another
  swig from your glass of expensive champagne, and close your eye.
  
  > Light handwritten book with lighter
  Maybe the public is better off in two dimensions. Maybe you just want
  to deny Pages his prize. Either way, ancient paper makes excellent
  kindling, and the book goes up in flames.
  
  With the book destroyed, the city is the same as it ever was. No
  ancient entity stumbles in, espousing the glories of the third
  dimension, and the lives of London's citizens are not uprooted in the
  slightest. Perhaps it's for the best. Change can be hard, and new
  dimensions can be dangerous.
  
  End your journey here? (You will be able to reverse this decision.)
  
  > Yes
  You never get the money you were promised for a job well done. Mr.
  Pages does, however, pay you for the chair you brought him. It's a
  lot, but not enough to last, and you soon find yourself returning to
  work. Luckily for you, even just being hired by Mr. Pages is a serious
  boost to your career, and you soon find yourself deeply enmeshed in
  The Case Of The Missing Goldfish, and dozens of other small
  mysteries from wealthy clientele. You make a peaceful living, and live
  a quiet life.
  
  Every so often, you hear stories about a strange shape cropping up
  around London. If it's Euclid, though, he certainly isn't there for
  you, because you never see him again.
  
  The third dimension doesn't exist. Maybe it never has.
  
  [PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE]
  
  > give the handwritten book to the librarian
  The librarian takes the book gently, like she's afraid she'll hurt it.
  She says nothing for a long time. Then, as though it were the most
  ordinary thing in the world, she assigns it a number, and dumps it in
  a basket for shelving. What happens next is up to the librarian now.
  You can't be sure that Pages won't get his hands on it, or the church,
  or Her Most Circular Majesty. But it's a step in the right direction
  for math and science - a step not north or south, but up.
  
  End your journey here? (You will be able to reverse this decision.)
  
  > Yes
  You never get the money you were promised for a job well done. Mr.
  Pages does, however, pay you for the chair you brought him. It's a
  lot, but not enough to last, and you soon find yourself returning to
  work. Luckily for you, even just being hired by Mr. Pages is a serious
  boost to your career, and you soon find yourself deeply enmeshed in
  The Case Of The Missing Goldfish, and dozens of other small
  mysteries from wealthy clientele. You make a peaceful living, and live
  a quiet life.
  
  A few months after the book is placed in the library, a bored student
  checks it out. He takes it to his friend, who studies ancient
  languages, and realizes the value of what he has. The book spreads
  rapidly around campus - Translations are made, and study groups
  formed. Progress is slow, of course, and it's still more or less
  illegal to discuss the third dimension as if it were real, but the
  book continues to seep into the public consciousness. Perhaps one day,
  Euclid's legacy will be complete.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  an apocyan catspaw
  an unspeakably hideous painting
  a green-glass mirror
  some brilliant sap
  a handwritten book
  a flint-and-steel lighter
  a maze map
  a set of ritual instructions
  a brass key
  a pickaxe
  the theoretical location of a hideout
  a rusty lamp (providing light)
  a pint of fry oil
  the spare towel
  a knapsack (open but empty)
  a compelling note
  
  > Go north
  A path from west to east snakes through the thick foliage.
  
  > Go west
  A path from the northwest bends around to the east. The trees here
  seem to grow in strange directions.
  
  > Go west
  A cavernous room, with thorny walls and no windows. Cages made from
  stiff briars are here, wrapping painfully around their dead-eyed
  prisoners. Most of them are motionless, but one stirs to look at you
  when you enter the room. To the east, the rest of the castle beckons
  you.
  
  You sit placidly in a cage of thorns, looking dead ahead. You don't
  remember what happened, the last time you were here.
  
  An imprisoned heptagon watches the room with its too-many eyes.
  
  > Show mirror
  (to the sevenfold panoptic)
  The sevenfold panoptic is unimpressed.
  
  > give the mirror
  (to the sevenfold panoptic)
  The heptagon takes the mirror tenderly. "Thank you," he says. "You've
  done a good thing." With that he hurls himself into the mirror, not
  even bothering to pick his way around the sharp parts, and is gone,
  leaving the mirror behind.
  
  > take the mirror
  Taken.
  
  Out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of green. A trick of
  the light. It's nothing. Don't worry about it.
  
  > enter the mirror
  As you step out from the mirror, you wake up in a cold sweat.
  
  [PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE]
  
  > examine the looking glass
  A green-tinted mirror with a real eye embedded in its handle.
  Presently, it is closed.
  
  > open it
  You try to pry it open, but the eye remains shut.
  
  > look in the mirror
  The looking glass is empty.
  
  > enter the mirror
  It's difficult, but you manage to force yourself through the glass.
  
  [PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE]## Amber Woods
  You are in a thick forest, where the ambient light is a soft shade of
  amber. You are in the land-behind-mirrors, home of the glass serpents.
  You are nowhere that is real. The forest stretches out in every
  direction.
  
  > check what you're carrying
  You are carrying:
  a looking glass
  an apocyan catspaw
  an unspeakably hideous painting
  some brilliant sap
  a handwritten book
  a flint-and-steel lighter
  a maze map
  a set of ritual instructions
  a brass key
  a pickaxe
  the theoretical location of a hideout
  a rusty lamp (providing light)
  a pint of fry oil
  the spare towel
  a knapsack (open but empty)
  a compelling note
  
  > enter mirror
  As you step out from the mirror, you wake up in a cold sweat.
  
  [PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE]## Your Lodgings
  You are in your small apartment. It's a cool London morning, and your
  windows are ever so slightly fogged up. A door is set into the west
  wall of your home.
  
  In one corner of the room is an old wooden trophy case.
  
  > put catspaw in Case
  built to hold it, the pieces start to fall into place. This was never
  a trophy case, it was a mold. And you have filled it - painstakingly,
  lovingly - with the treasures of the world. Brass from the devils,
  foam from the deepest pits, even the idea of ivory, stolen from the
  serpent lords themselves. The shape that you have made is not fire,
  but it burns.