Descending the familiar corridor and stone steps, he passed once again through the tall archway—now devoid of its Heavy Armor Guards—and the courtyard came into view.
Dusk had fallen, and the sky was gradually being stained ink-black. Only the orange-red flames leaping from the stone torch basins sustained a dim, yellow patch of light in the courtyard.
The gurgling of the fountain was exceptionally clear in the silence. The smell of burning pine mixed with the crisp, bitter fragrance of plants, barely masking the lingering odor of smoke and char drifting from the distance.
Murphy's steps were light, making almost no sound on the smooth, polished cobblestone path.
His gaze habitually swept across the courtyard: the fountain, the flowerbeds, and the two adjacent, two-story stone houses.
However, just as he stepped into the courtyard and his gaze drifted habitually toward his own stone house, he paused.
The stone steps before his door were not empty.
