The following two days passed in a whirlwind of renovations that seemed impossible.
Revas didn't hire decorators or caterers. He just walked into the empty, cavernous Great Hall of the West Tower, which had served as storage for fifty years, and decided it was too ordinary.
"The acoustics are terrible," Revas complained, clapping his hands and frowning at the echo. "And it smells like wet dog. We need ambiance, Mistress. We need drama."
He moved as if leading an invisible orchestra. With a wave of his hand, centuries of dust gathered into floating orbs of silver light that drifted near the ceiling like captured stars. The cracked stone floor became covered in black ice that felt warm but swirled with smoke when anyone stepped on it.
Mirabelle watched from the balcony, sipping tea. "You are enjoying this too much."
