Time flew by in a feverish rhythm of construction, the scent of fresh lime, and the thud of hammers. The Rosenthal Auction House grew not by the day, but by the hour, transforming from a featureless warehouse on the outskirts of the capital into a monumental structure that, on account of its vast display windows, was already openly dubbed the “Glass Palace.” The grove of trees encompassing the majestic building turned into a well-tended garden with neat alleys and artificial ponds, conferring a truly fairy-tale appearance upon the territory.

Under the strict escort of Marcus's armed guards, the first wagons set about arriving at the doors of the building. Iron-bound boxes were brought inside with ultimate attention, striving not to damage the fragile contents.

Azalea walked through the still-empty hall, and the sound of her steps echoed hollowly beneath the high vaults. She ascended to the second floor with confidence via a staircase that was not yet fully completed. Situated here was the zone of the “masters.” Spacious studios flooded with daylight were equipped with the latest technology. The finest tools, separate storage rooms, and an immense supply of consumables.

Azalea inspected every single premise in person. She knew full well that the great masters “Vincent” or “Jan” would never appear here in the flesh, but the rooms ought to look absolutely alive. Discarded cups, scattered sketches, the elusive scent of fresh paint - the illusion of presence had to be flawless.

On the third floor, the setting changed drastically. A cozy comfort held sway here, worthy of the finest metropolitan drawing rooms: soft carpets, armchairs upholstered in deep velvet, and elegant tea tables. Everything was created so that future guests might rest and experience not the slightest discomfort.

“Do the invitations continue to arrive?” Azalea asked, reviewing the stack of envelopes upon the table in the reception room.

“Yes,” Marcus chuckled, handing her a pack of letters with embossed gold edges. “The majority are addressed to my name. The lords and barons long to shake the hand of the 'man who stands behind this wealth.' They still cannot or do not wish to acknowledge that you are the true head of the house.”

“Let them credit whatever they wish. A stubborn ram frolics long, but he is the exact one served first for dinner,” Azalea sifted through the envelopes. “The spouses of certain ones, however, proved far shrewder. Many of them seek a private reception even prior to the official opening. Everyone cannot wait to peek inside first.”

Concluding her inspection of the upper floors, Azalea descended into the basements. This was a sanctuary - a place harder to access than the personal quarters of the royal palace.

“Are the safes verified?” her voice became dry and businesslike.

“The mechanism triggers ideally,” Magnus Trent opened the heavy steel door leading into the primary repository. “The walls are reinforced with double lead sheets and reinforced stone. Such thickness completely dampens any magical vision, while the built-in barrier will not permit any magic to seep through the walls.”

Azalea stepped inside. Resting upon the shelves in neat stacks already were the first folders containing documents printed on costly handmade paper manufactured by their personal master. Every single sheet was strictly numbered for future reports. She approached a table with samples of the new crested paper and passed her fingers over the raised embossing of the rosary.

“Is the magical impression applied?”

“Strictly in the indicated places. Just in time for the opening, Hansen's special magnifying glasses arrived to verify the authenticity of the impressions.”

“Have you already settled into the new place?” Azalea asked, taking up a magnifying glass in her hands and evaluating the quality of the work.

“Yes, Lady Rosenthal. Currently I can focus entirely upon the security of the whole complex,” Trent faltered, clearly not resolving to pose the troubling question. “Tell me... was little Milady Strelitzia severely saddened on account of the fact that I shall no longer instruct her?”

Azalea turned to him and narrowed her eyes slightly.

“You mostly carried her on your neck, demonstrated tricks, and instructed her in launching fireworks,” a warm spark flashed in her eyes. “The little one, of course, sniffled a bit when she learned regarding the relocation. But upon comprehending that you will be nearby and she will be capable of visiting you, she quieted quickly. Besides, her new instructor comprehends the nature of her gift far better.”

Trent exhaled with relief.

“Who knew that milady would prove so gifted...”

Azalea had already turned to check the adjacent compartments of the repository, but froze for a moment in the doorway.

“Cease blaming yourself for what transpired in the past, Trent. No one could foresee that her power would awaken so early. You saved her then, and that is the chief matter.”

She walked slowly into the distant corner of the repository. Concealed behind a double false panel was yet another, deepest repository - a hiding place regarding which merely a few were aware.

Azalea touched the stacks of paper with her fingers. Flawless at first glance, with precise watermarks, yet possessing barely perceptible defects, cheaper and coarser upon closer inspection.

Nearby, in open drawers, counterfeit “jewels” gleamed dully - artfully faceted colored glass and trinkets aged to resemble ancient artifacts.

“Counterfeit gold for counterfeit people,” she whispered quietly.

The main hall was immense. The space, four stories in height, greeted Azalea with a hollow echo. Sunlight fell through the domed window in the ceiling, slicing the emptiness into golden stripes.

Azalea stood directly opposite the main entrance - a tiny figure against the backdrop of the grandiose architecture. Rising before her was an empty pedestal, the heart of the future auction. On the sides, like the wings of a giant bird, balconies ascended upward. Private boxes, concealed by carved partitions, promised anonymity and power to those who could afford them. Priority in bidding, the finest view, and a feeling of superiority - she was selling not things; she was selling the right to be first.

Two spiral staircases at the edges of the hall curved like frozen streams of smoke, leading to the second floor. From there, through corridors, guests could access small halls for private showings - places where the destinies of entire fortunes would be decided.

Behind the stage, two doors for bringing out lots loomed dark, while on the sides of it were passages into private rooms where buyers could execute deals far from inquisitive eyes.

“This is...” Ophelia stumbled, feeling goosebumps run across her skin. “This is majestic.”

Marcus approached them and also looked upward at the empty boxes.

“When will everything be completed finally?” Azalea asked without turning around. “When shall I be capable of filling this emptiness with life?”

“The interior finishing of the boxes and the installation of the lifting mechanisms will consume another week,” Marcus checked his notations. “The furniture and illumination for the small halls will arrive in three days. If the workers do not slacken the pace, in ten days we shall be capable of polishing the floors here for the first guests.”

Situated in the center at the height of the fourth floor was the royal box. A vast space with an enfilade of private rooms, its own rest area, and an autonomous repository. The walls there were layered with lead and reinforced with strengthening charms, rendering the box absolutely inaccessible to eavesdropping or theft. In point of security, this place could compete with the personal bedroom of the king.

“And yet, it was worth selling this box to the royal family rather than presenting it as a gift,” Azalea exhaled. “It is worth pumping as much money out of the royal family as possible.”