Right? That's what I thought. That was six months ago, and now. I'm nowhere near finding anything. There's no book. No one to ask. There's just nothing here.

[Which, fair. Quentin hadn't been doing any of that for the past month. It was all drinking, all the time. He might still look it, too. Red-rimmed eyes and pasty skin. Or maybe it's not so visible since the light is down low with just two lanterns and Quentin's is on the table to illuminate the book.]