Richard nodded. “I had a little wine once,” said Door, hesitantly. “My father. He. At dinner. Would let us taste it.” The Angel Islington lifted the bottle: it looked like some kind of decanter. Richard wondered if the bottle was made of glass; it refracted and reflected the candlelight so strangely. Perhaps it was some kind of crystal, or one huge diamond. It even made it seem that the wine inside was glowing, as if it were made of light. The angel took the top off the crystal and poured an inch of the liquid inside it into a wine glass. It was a white wine, but a wine unlike any Richard had ever seen. It threw light around the caverns, like sunlight on a swimming pool. Door and Richard sat around an age-blackened wooden table, on huge wooden chairs, and said nothing. “This wine,” said Islington, “is the last bottle of its kind. I was given a dozen bottles by one of your ancestors.” It handed the glass to Door, and began to pour another inch of the glowing wine from the decanter into another glass.
