Dusk congealed out of gorge mist, turning the autumn rain into a cold drizzle that clung to limestone like lard.
In the eastern gallery, the tall window looked out over the drowned nettles of the outer yard. The frame was ancient heart-oak, pinned to masonry with iron spikes rusted into red blisters. Within that frame hung a single wide pane of greenish bottle-glass, warped by the pontil so anyone looking toward Mere saw the pine woods swimming like reeds in an eddy.
At the fifth chime from the valley—muffled into a wet thud by low clouds—Noll Vey felt the first tremor run through the lintel.
It was the sharp snap of Reality Debt D-06 reaching the end of its maturity clock.
Behind his socket in the western wall of the Grand Hall, the blue crystal flared with a cold flash that lit damp mortar joints like branching veins. In the gallery, the wavy pane shuddered in its came. The greenish tinge curdled, bleached to pond-ice, and thickened into a mineral clarity that smelled of crushed flint, river silt, and old brass wire. An oily iridescence crawled across the outer surface before locking into a steady, translucent luster.
In the hall, Prit tapped his white chalk stub against the dark slate.
