► ROLLER RINK
At the far end of the exhibition hall, a length of rope has been spooled out across the floor to mark out a large circle. And inside this circle, two Orlesian scholars (who seem suspiciously more than middle aged behind their plain masks or makeup) wearing roller skates are presently in the fight for their lives to beat the other in a race around the circumference of the circle.

The sound of incredible. Here, the low roar of twelve rasping caster wheels snarling across the stone floor, presumably leaving great scratches in whatever treatment has been used to polish it. Too, a general barking and booing from the handful of scholars assembled at the outside of the circle to observe the race. And somewhere in the midst of all this, Wysteria de Foncé's shrill voice rising in the effort to continue her conversation with one of the onlookers, saying, "—Yes, Monsieur. You raise an interesting point. I suppose one might very well equip their staff with a set. That would see them move about a house more quickly, though the floors would have to be quite even. A mislaid tile can be somewhat disastrous."

► YE OLDE BOX FAN
Nebulously in the same presentation space as the make do roller rink, and generally drawing less of a blatantly rowdy crowd, is a metal box. Or was a metal box. An hour ago, the box—looking very much like the bastard child of a suitcase and a mantle clock—had been unfolded, and the complicated fan-mechanism locked inside its mechanical puzzle-box like structure drawn out of its top. A complicated series of pressure plates had been pressed, enchantments activated, until eventually the fan blades of the machine had set to oscillating thanks to the wind being generated by the dueling hot and cold enchantments contained inside the housing of the case. Cue the various ooohs and aaahs from the onlookers.

But that was an hour ago. Now, the box's mechanism has gone still and Wysteria is sat cross-legged on the floor beside it while the miniature circus of the roller rink continues unsupervised a few feet away. She is wearing a stout leather glove on her non-mechanical hand, and the finely worked hand shaped attachment on her prosthetic has been swapped for a far more economical clamping hook—the better to go rooting around the wind machine's internal compartments with.

Naturally today is when something in the device would become misaligned.

► SKATE AND GRAB
"I don't understand. Where is your colleague? He had the other—what do you mean he is not your colleague?"

It isn't the first time a vehement argument has broken out in the middle of the skating circle. Over the last day and a half, various academics have bickered with one another about being pushed off their skates (obviously they would have never fallen otherwise), or about the best methods by which to propel themselves (turn the toe this way), or how to stop themselves (ideally not by plowing full bore into the onlookers; look what you've done to Jacqueline's nose!). This is, however, the first altercation in which Wysteria herself has been involved. She is presently arguing with a sandy haired young man, both of them with a lung capacity honed by long-winded 'debate', the one of them in Trade and the other in rapid Orlesian.

It makes for a fine bit of chaos as various exhibition attendees, impatient for their own turn at the roller skates and now irritated to discover one half has rolled off, join in on one side of the argument or another. However, it's not quite chaotic enough to entirely cover the rasp of wheels on stone as the man with the missing skates comes blasting by Viktor and Jayce's space and makes to snatch the Thaumosphere without slowing.