The pain was gone, replaced by a sharp autumn coolness, the kind old buildings and old books prefer. Both of them were standing, standing on tile, flanked by tall pillars. There was a road not far outside, so there was an echo of traffic and the murmur of voices, but it was, after all, a library. It was not a dream, exactly, because Janus had been able to draw on the reality of the place from souls who had been there. It gave it more dimensions than just the imagination of Atticus alone. It was grittier, there was dust in the corners. The light changed more often from the tall stone arched windows. There were more people, moving around and going about their own business, and unlike in a dream they all had business to pursue. They weren't actual souls, just what souls had done when they'd been here and alive. All of them were from the last five or six years, so the appearance was right, more of the people were older than younger.
Janus looked extremely different. In this place he was momentarily unrecognizable: the very young soldier Steve knew so well. Except Janus had some control, or enough to dress modern, in a green jacket and wide ankle jeans, and not in blood. The army short fade haircut and the brown boots were all army. He was staggeringly thin, however, and shorter than Atticus. He took his hands back and looked around. "There we go." Different voice, too. Higher. Smoother. Softer. A slight touch of lisp. "You okay?"