Unfortunately for Fives, Marten is a very determined, very agile little noodle, who manages to squirm directly between Fives' ankles before the door reforms.

Inside, the room is plain, but nice. It's warm here. The light is warm and bright, and there's an alcove hewn right out of the rock that's almost the dimensions of one of the old sleeping tubs, filled with pillows and cushions. It's got a curtain hanging over the open side, currently rolled up and tied with brightly colored mismatched bows, orange and magenta and mint green. The walls are painted in a 360-degree mural that looks remarkably like a slightly wonky garden, painted by someone without opposable thumbs and who has never seen a real one. In several instances the flowers are painted up and down the stems where leaves should go, for example, with multiple colors on the same plant.

There are empty shelves, as though Fives might later want to fill them with something, and in the center of the room, a lot table rises out of the floor, its slightly rumpled, sloping sides indicate it was originally a stalagmite cut flat. On it is a cup of water, and a tray filled with little pastries. They smell good, too, buttery and savory.

"We...we weren't sure what you'd like," Marten says meekly. He's still not at all sure.