No instruments. [ Much like Natasha, it seems mostly debris from some sort of commerce or accounting center. Scales, waterlogged books of sales and weights recorded, broken tables or desk drawers, a few little knicknacks, including a small box that may have been an elaborate paperweight. He hefts it in his hand to throw it out to a far corner, and it makes a soft clang, like delicate metal tine-keys being pressed. He pauses, and pulls out a hand kerchief to wipe away at enough of the grime to try and find a latch to pry the lid open, and sure enough— ] A crank music box, perchance?

[ He offers it out to Natasha for inspection, before taking a moment of pause, trying to use his keen ears in a second attempt to locate the music's origin. ] The source of the sound seems to be above us. I'm not sure it is something we can access from within the room, but I am glad to give you a lift, should you need it, and see perchance if it is tucked up somewhere along with our cryptic message. [ As to the second part, he shakes his head ] I've sung hymns for winter's solstice Starlight, but naught more than that beyond tavern songs.