I stepped forward in the dark, delicately, holding blind hands out in front of me. My fingertips touched and recognized the frame of a high-backed wooden chair. I ran my fingers along the edges. It had cathedralesque spires crowning either side. I pulled it toward me and found it didn’t scrape against the floorboards, as if there were felts affixed to the legs, allowing it to be both easy to move and quiet. I stepped into the space it had occupied and, as I suspected, felt the curved lip of a table against my thigh. I felt along the edge until my hand made contact with the arm of another chair. Then I saw the shape of my hand, appearing through the blackness like a photograph developing. I looked up and saw a chandelier slowly descending from the chamber ceiling, which seemed, impossibly,
