---
They were there for a long time.
John set the first brush to stone and pushed. The bristles rasped like a saw through a thin tree. Brown came up in swirls. Old red came up in shadows. He rinsed, scrubbed again, and found more. The room did not give up its dirt easily. Rooms like this never do.
Fizz held the little tin lantern high and drifted slow along the wall like a careful moon. He tried to breathe through his mouth. It did not help. "I can taste the smell," he said, voice small and dramatic. "It tastes like a wet boot that learned to read and then ate its own book."
"Do not talk about taste," John said. He scrubbed a bolt head until it shone like a small coin lost in a bad memory.
Fizz lasted three minutes before he needed a snack. He pulled a tiny wrapped sweet from his bag, nibbled it with ceremony, then tucked the wrapper away like a man hiding treasure. "All right," he declared, braver now. "Time for real magic."
