Beyond the door was a vestibule that was every bit as austere and practical as its owner.  The walls and floors were hardwood and utterly barren, lacking so much as an inviting rug or a well-placed portrait to show that anyone actually lived there, save for a small bucket to the right of the door.  In it was an old black parasol and, morbidly enough, a few spare wooden legs.  Dust hung heavily in the air.  Clearly Brackett had not spent much time at home in the weeks since the kidnapping.<br/><br/>An open door on the right led off into a parlor with a distinctly feminine touch, clearly the work of Caroline.  Pastel floral patterns dominated everything from the seat cushions to the tea set gathering dust on the table at its center.  There didn't seem to be much else of note.  A set of creaking stairs led up to the second floor hallway, whose drabness suggested it contained Brackett's bedroom and office, and ultimately their destination: Caroline's abandoned room.<br/><br/>Cold.  That was the overwhelming sensation here, and it wasn't just from the draft billowing in from under the heavy leather tarp.  The room might have been about as pretty as the drawing room at some point, but now it was but a ruined shell.  The outer wall had blasted inwards as if from a tremendous blow, and shards of wood paneling were still embedded in the wall nearest the door.  The bedside cabinet and wardrobe were knocked to one side, as was the bed itself.  Some of the sheets seem to have been torn while others were missing entirely.  Shards of glass crackled underfoot, but of the actual window frame there was nothing left.  A small clock laying in the corner, somehow undamaged in all that devastation, was dutifully ticking away the seconds still.