Campanella sat in the kitchen of the empty theatre. He had never been truly comfortable in the building, viewing it as an inherited (and conveniently placed) relic of the preceding Cabal. With the exit of Tuesday, the theatre had become even more empty and sterile. The open spaces and warren-like passages needed the quirky presence of the Acanthus to give them life; without that spark, the Sanctum was only so much space where they met and, occasionally, practiced their Art.
He sat at ease, reading a trade journal. To one side was a half consumed salad he had hastily prepared; to the other was a glass of red. Before him was the bottle, open and inviting.
The Moros suspected that a certain Thyrsus was seeking more advice on her apostacy. He was more than willing to take another shot at drawing her into the mysteries of the Alae Draconis.
Aurora Orianna