After the initial shock of Silas Blackwood's puzzling disappearance, Lily found her mind shifting into its familiar investigative gears. The blizzard outside, howling like a frustrated beast, ensured no one was leaving, which meant the answers, and perhaps the culprit, were still within these cozy, yet suddenly confining, lodge walls. She settled into a plush armchair by the grand fireplace, ostensibly reading a forgotten copy of a literary journal, but her gaze subtly swept over the remaining guests.

Her years as a librarian had taught her the art of quiet observation, of piecing together narratives from disparate fragments. People, much like the books she cherished, often revealed their true stories between the lines, in the subtle shifts of their eyes, the nervous fidgeting of their hands, or the carefully chosen words they uttered. Lily knew better than to directly accuse or interrogate; instead, she would weave herself into their conversations, a quiet thread in the tapestry of their anxieties.

Her first target, if one could call it that, was Julian Thorne, a young, earnest novelist whose face seemed perpetually etched with a mix of awe and anxiety. He was pacing near the large bay window, occasionally peering out at the swirling snow, his movements jerky and restless. Lily noticed he kept glancing towards the empty spot at the breakfast table where Silas Blackwood usually held court.