You walk over to the closed book, and stare down at it. If you open it, what might happen next? Haven't you already caused enough potential trouble? And yet, you have to find out: did you just imagine the whole thing?

Picking the book up, you eye it as if it might bite you, like that book did to Bruce Campbell in whatever that movie was, "Army of Darkness" maybe? Coming to a decision, you flip open the cover, and commence turning the pages, looking for that image, that room, and determined not to gaze at any other picture too long, no matter how fascinating.

There it is! The walls, the paintings, and the chaise longue --- empty and unoccupied and not a stray hair behind. Everything else perfectly in place, the bowl of grapes, the samovar, down to the velvet-and-brocade ottoman you couldn't see before because she was in the way.