The night in Old Dunling, as always, was filled with dense steam rising alongside the airships into the streets, but this time there was a splash of different colors in the street.
A blinding light flickered in the dimness, the glow tubes flashing on and off incessantly, making anyone trying to read what was written on them feel dizzy. Meanwhile, a vague and intense song was playing behind the door, catching the attention of passersby.
Perhaps having become the master of a house, the new owner of 121A Cork Street was heading irreversibly toward a life of abandon.
The first-floor living room remained the same as always, except now, thanks to Lorenzo's renovation, there were a few extra chairs and what appeared to be a decent-looking mahogany table—albeit only superficially decent, as it was placed haphazardly and covered with clothes, books, and dinner plates. It seemed someone had just eaten there.
