They were now deep down below the level of the street. The roar and thunder of traffic came to them only as a subdued rumble of some giant talking in his sleep.
The room was immense. Shadows were everywhere, shadows and grotesque forms.
“Where are we?” Jeanne asked, scarcely able to repress a desire to flee.
“It is one of the property rooms of the Opera House. What will you have?” Rosemary laughed low and deep. “Only ask for it. You will find it here. All these things are used at some time or another in the different operas.”
As Jeanne’s eyes became accustomed to the pale half-light, she realized that this must be nearly true. In a corner, piled tight in great dark sections, was a miniature mountain. Standing on edge, but spilling none of its make-believe water, was a pond where swans were wont to float.
A little way apart were the swans, resting on great heaps of grass that did not wither and flowers that did not die.
In a distant corner stood a great gray castle. Someone had set it up, perhaps to make sure that it was all intact, then had left it standing.
“What a place for mystery!” Jeanne exclaimed.
“Yes, and listen! Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?”