There's enough light in the sky to touch the view and show up its lines and shadows, making the view worth the several hundred dollars it costs per night before it sinks into blackness, the spangling of distant lights across the valley, the glow from other cabins at conservative distances from one another.

And within this lodge, there's still a sense of recent return, having retired from a social occasion, the chill yet to leech all the way out of bones and breath. The Wellicks both having disappeared into their room for a moment, which leaves Ilde with the roaring fire, the bar, the rug, the giant windows that seem so thin and clear and somehow trap in all the warmth from the icy, wintry landscape beyond. These traditional touches embellish the clean lines of boxy angles of modernity, although old-style wooden panelling soaks up the light of the fire.

Not for long. It's Tyrell that emerges, quiet as a cat, picking out two crystal glasses from the bar and selecting an alcohol of dark amber. He glances towards Ilde, inquires;

"How's the view?"