The upstairs hall was almost a museum. Cases set against every piece of
wall, glass fronts over medals and little models of battles, tiny painted
figures staging a tiny fight, even carefully arranged pieces of cotton dyed
grey and stretched just right to make a puff of smoke from a gun or cannon.

At the far end of the hall, right by the window overlooking the garden, and
the tiny window-seat there, stood two suits of armor, Uncle Ram's prized
posessions. Both were steel and leather, one looked uncomfortably hot and
hard to move in, heavy plates bound together, and a chain mail interior of
the helm, the other was black lacquered, strutted with bamboo and just thin
pieces of steel, and it looked, though still heavy, as if it wasn't
impossible to lift, nevermind wear. It had a black face mask, twisted into a
scary grimace.

Sama wouldn't go near it, even in daylight, and Meera was definitely
unsettled by it if she passed it in the night without thinking, or the
setting sun's light caught it wrong as she was going to bed. She wished her
room was set a little further from it.