They walked into the huge entrance hall and looked around the bare grey walls, and at the cracked ceiling covered with cobwebs.
"No wonder no one had come here since it was closed up!" said Boyce, his voice echoing far into the distant rooms, along with the clip-clop that their boots made on the solid wood floor.
"With enough helpers it won't take us long to make it liveable, Boyce."
Boyce nodded as he heard Lloyd's sentence carry throughout the mansion's vast number of rooms.
They walked further through the mansion going from the kitchen, to the ballroom, Dearborne's old parlour and to Brook's private den.
Every room, every corner of the great house was the same. The house was empty and stripped of anything of value, and of anything without value.
Blue-green lazurite no longer adorned the walls. There were no more crystals hanging from the ceilings, no more carpets were on the floor and there were no sculptures left in the hallways.
Only years of dust could be seen inside with the shells of hundreds of dead insects and arachnids strewn all over the place.
The windows of the mansion were still intact but they were so yellow and dirty that barely enough light penetrated into the interior, let alone having anything seen through them.
Lloyd took a knife from his belt and began to scrape some of the years from off the panes of glass in Brook's viewing den.