The creak of footsteps on the spiral staircase announced Sokolov’s arrival. The curtains were not drawn but the darkness on Nyssa was deep enough that the fire in the hearth wasn’t enough to cast away every shadow. Pausing at the top of the staircase, just within the firelights reach, Sokolov’s took in the state of the workroom: the forgotten tray of food, the equipment stacked and strewn about every available surface. The air was thick with the smell of burning wood and… something he couldn’t place. There, at the centre of it all, was Mireasă, her back to him as she worked at something he could not see.

“You cannot sustain yourself on knowledge alone, Maestro.”