Ah, young as you were. This is a very old story indeed, sir Knight. [The word choice is selected to prico, though her tone is all overwrought and breathless still as they descend into the dull golden glow of the electric lamps and into the belly of the cellar.

There is a wet chill here, the smell of dust - inevitable in these London homes - so she feels no compunctions about keeping her arm wrapped in his as they move farther into the cellar. His side provides some welcome comfort of heat, after all.]

Please, go on. What led you from artifacts to ice?