The flooded chamber below Gormenghast becomes a sunken set: Titus and Countess Gertrude, flanked by men-at-arms, cut their way through the ornate floor above, timber and dust raining into black water. Through tall windows, soldiers in boats splinter the glass, oars churning the flood, torchlight scattering across the surface. The composition rises to the rafters, where shadow swallows all—save two garish red shoes, incongruous and mocking, the only trace of Steerpike’s presence. Tension coils through every gesture: the castle itself as amphitheater, decay and violence staged in gilded, breathless suspense.