"It must be," Val says, "something to do with the skies--"

Seated with his back to that central pedestal, he is sketching as he speaks, putting the finishing touches on Silentir in his commonplace book, starting on an approximate floorplan of the room that they have found themselves in. The fact that his voice is quieted by whatever dark and oppressive presence rules this space still does not deter him from speaking. Valentine de Foncé will speak whenever and wherever and however he pleases. He will also be comfortable whenever and wherever and however he pleases. The fact that the light is extremely poor by which to sketch--the fact that the very air in this room is unpleasant--neither bothers him. Nothing can bother a man who is assured that he is welcome in every space he has ever set foot in, and has never experienced any significant pushback against that assumption.

He takes a break to gesture overhead and behind him with the nub of charcoal pencil with which he sketches. The pedestal.

"She resembles a moon, does she not? And the constellation before. We might consider the phases through which the moons pass."