All the Evils of the World

The basement is transformed. It is a workshop more ancient than any Acht has ever seen, and alien in its sparseness. The floor is paneled with a wooden grid, save for a raised stone circle in the centre, framed with red pillars. The walls are hung with new silk, crisp and sharp, the elements called in the corners with calligraphy and rotes, and behind the cloth panels are towers of drawers, layered neatly every magical material to hand. It is an open space, teeming with prana and breath and the simplicity of direction, no more and no less.

In fact, the only concession to modernity at all in this workshop is the electric lights that Caster cannot bring himself to unwire, after all the improvements he has made. But nearly all of the room is bare, or should be, and Caster will not be impeded as he searches for the lamp. The cord leads him through the dark like a thread. Such a tricky lamp, he thinks. I should invent one that activates at motion or sound.

He finds the lamp, on the edge of the stone platform, and turns it on.