And its voice rang as deep and sonorous as a flawless iron bell. The words arrived on a putrescent breath. Blackthorn wrinkled his nose. The sitting room was more opulent than any other in Britannia. Its lavish paintings and goldenwood panels, extravagantly carved, spoke of generations of devoted craftsmanship.
Rich tapestries wove ancient tales in their lush designs.
Silver and crystal glittered among the room's details, flashing in the glow of an enormous, blazing hearth. In the center of the room sat Blackthorn, dressed in a tunic of the richest black silk. Gold trim echoed the firelight. His fingers were steepled before his face. Lord British stood in the doorway of the parlor.