The threshold of the women's building did not lead into a domestic space, but into a secular temple of discipline.
Crossing the heavy oak doors, the air itself seemed to change. The sulfur and coal smoke of Francisco's forge vanished, replaced by the scent of old parchment, distilled spirits, and the cold mineral breath of Roman cement.
At the entrance stood a massive mahogany desk, a dark sentinel against the pale gray walls. Here, the rules of the Göttingen Library were enforced with almost military precision.
A large ledger lay open upon the desk, its pages carefully divided into columns: Name, Hour of Entry, and Hour of Departure.
Every woman who worked in the building—whether the wife of a professor or the daughter of a guild master—was required to dip her quill and sign her name.
