Lambert claps a hand on Peridot's shoulder. This is harder and more awkward than it sounds, considering how much he has to bend down to do it, but he doesn't say anything, just grips her shoulder hard enough for his claws to gently prick in. He wants Strange back, but with the taken sounding like they're spread between the courts, short of siding with one and cutting a deal with the other to use the Rose to beat the other up, well, their options are limited here.

"The Scribe only writes the truth," he says out loud. "If you're here, if you know what this library's books are made, you know that." He doesn't know how the magic works, but he looks at the Ringmaster, chewing his lip idly. They found books on the other miracles in a place this vast; can't they manage the same trick again?

"You say it's closed to the Winter Court. Is the truth really worth that little to you?"