Horvath can, even if he thinks back hard on the past few decades since he settled in New York, count the number of guests he's had on one hand. It's only been Bel, the past five years or so, and he's had two or three trusted associates over to talk shop in the past twenty years, once each. Most of those have since passed on, anyway. A large reason is that he is cautious, to the point of paranoia. After all, his home is built around a vault that contains some very volatile magical items, which is the very reason he settled there, wanting to guard it more closely. That's partly an excuse, though. It's only subconsciously that he looks for reasons to keep people out; out of his home, out of his life. Friends are dangerous, it hurts too much to get attached only to outlive them in what seems like such a short time.
More recently, that's changed, and he's making an effort to open up again. It still takes some careful adjustments to the wards, to let even one person in. Fortunately he knows Anna fairly well, having astral projected with her, so that makes the adjustment easier. She should feel privileged, being one of only three people currently able to pass through the fortification of shields that surround his home.
At the arranged time, he magically teleports her in, to a dim cozy library with a vaulted ceiling of tile. There are no windows, and if one studies the architectural details it's not hard to see the remnants of the turn-of-the-century train station this place once was. Horvath has since filled it with bookshelves, desks, floor lamps and chairs. It's comfortably warm, and the furniture is antique and well-padded, much like the man who makes his home here. A low table has been laid out with tea, finger sandwiches, and cookies, with a few book-shaped wrapped packages stacked to one side.