A moment later, the room filled with stars. Not real stars, but poetic stars: tiny orbs of gold that danced and spun around the room like particles of dust in sunlight. The fire kindled too, with the same golden light, and the glow lit the room. For a moment, Millie forgot the shift and the summoner. She forgot everything. “I say,” she said, and felt the inadequacy of Jacqueline Blaine’s prose. “Those are rather nice. I meant switch on the gas lamp, or something.”
