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Beyond the mirror was no cellar room, like the one Florian had just left. He fetched up instead somewhere very high up, though he could not immediately have said how he knew anything about his relative elevation, for there were no windows. He was in somebody’s wardrobe, the kind that consists of a smallish room lined wall-to-wall with cupboards. Some of the doors hung open, affording Florian a view of many racks of garments, all sumptuously coloured and finely made.
He could not find the door.
There were mirrors, though, mirrors aplenty. At least three at first count, not including any that might be concealed behind the carved, dark wooden cupboard-doors that all hung open. Was that a lazy habit, or was somebody in the process of choosing—
‘Another one,’ said a deep voice, and Floria
