Irishka once more thoughtfully stroked the wall, marveling at its silky smoothness against her will. “Wow, and they weren’t too lazy to polish the slabs. Perfectionists are ancient,” she snorted to herself and was immediately surprised at the lack of fear. As if all the anxiety and uncertainty remained in the corridor, cut off by multi-ton polished silk doors.

- What's happening? - the quiet voice of the mentor made Irishka turn to her.

“Looks like we've been locked up,” the Marquise stepped up to Miranda and, grabbing her thin shoulders, gently pressed her to her.

The girl lifted her head and looked at her aunt.

- I think that...