The alleyway is much the same, though it looks like the buildings have decided to rearrange themselves. Both the waiting room and the airy place are still present, but they're in different locations. Fortunately, they're still at ground level, so she can still access them.

...hmmm. 

She looks again for clever doors, ignoring the bashful one that sits across the street. 

There is a bit of wall that's almost half dark grey moss, half dark indigo vines - but the wall is not completely flat, and two sections of grey moss don't quite match up, color wise. Upon investigation, this proves to be another clever door, half overgrown.

She brushes vines aside like a curtain, and asks if she may pass.

The door's a bit sticky, like it's rusted or overgrown, but it opens soon enough.

Inside is a place that was once a bar, but seems to have stopped. This once-bar feels like it's profoundly experienced the passage of time. Grey moss has wormed its way into the stone floor, making it soft and carpet-like, with only a few traces of darker stone still stubbornly poking through. There are tables, with a few chairs neatly stacked atop them for closing, but it looks like most of the chairs and some of the tables have left to make their homes elsewhere. The bar is in good condition, its wood sturdy and strong and half-petrified, half transmuted into something else. Vines climb up the sides of the bar, but they have left the countertop itself alone. The shelves behind the bar are similarly sturdy, and contain a few glasses and bottles. Most of these are empty, some with large cracks or in shards, but a few scattered bottles still contain spirits. Vines and moss similarly cover the walls; if there was any decoration besides them, then it must have left a while ago.

She moves delicately, careful not to disturb the dozing moss. She examines the tables and chairs, all motley and grizzled and eager for a good time. A few of them have been eaten through by rot, but they seem cheerful all the same. 

She steps behind the bar, careful of gleaming glass amid silvery moss. She catalogs broken glassware: it chuckles at her lecherously. That needs mending. The few upstanding bottles accept her invitation to escape their rowdy, jagged neighbours: she sets them on the bartop for now, her fingers hesitant to part from their polished glass and faded labels. 

There ought to be a back of bar somewhere around here. Are these vines tricksome...?

They are a little bit tricksome, but they don't disguise the second door very well. It looks to be the main entrance of this place, and there isn't another door hiding in the vines. That would mean that the entrance she took probably once led to the back room, and the entire back room has apparently just - left. How very strange.

One of the tables is of a different style than the others, and upon closer inspection has a game board carefully painted into it. The paint is dark, but has stubbornly resisted fading, and the wood of the table has resisted rot.

Some of the more broken shards of glassware have decided to become more colorful, once they were freed of being part of an object with a purpose. Pieces that clearly came from a single bottle or glass have shifted to different colors, some matching, some wildly different - purple, green, blue, orange, a pale yellow-white, and some even in a very stark and bloody red. Others have decided to remain as they were; more ordinary clear glass, or darker shades of brown, amber, or green more befitting of something that came from a bottles of alcohol.

All of the bottles with their liquids still inside them are labelled for and smell like alcohol; one looks like some kind of high-alcohol content vodka, three are bottles of cheap looking beer, one is a bottle of more expensive looking beer, and four are bottles of mediocre wine. There are no signs of leaking or cracks on any of them.

She crouches carefully, and touches one of the fragments of blood-red glass. 

It bites her. Hungry as she suspected, then. She pops her poor offended finger in her mouth and frowns at it. That one will take some effort to find a place for. 

She gathers up the other fragments of bottle, and carefully arranges them on the bartop so as not to crowd any of them. She smiles. It's nice to see things being what they wish to be: now all they need is a home. 

She takes the chairs and the wine to the airy place and lays them in audience. She takes the table to the centre of the fountain in the empty courtyard and leaves it to preside there. 

She checks outside the front door of the former bar.

... It's the courtyard. Not a copy of the courtyard, it's definitely her courtyard - it has the table in the centre of the fountain and everything.

There are several reasons why this is a little absurd. It doesn't make any sense, spatially. Earlier she went down the alleyway, away from the former bar, in order to get to the courtyard. Then, in the courtyard itself, there hadn't been a door to this place from the courtyard. Except - after entering through this direction, now there is. Plain as day, a pleasant little entryway into the former bar, friendly and bold and inviting.

She smiles. 

She goes back down the alleyway to see if the door is still there. 

The alleyway's arranged a bit differently, coming at it from this side. Both the back door to the once-bar and the place of waiting things are missing, but the tall performance hall and her bookplace are present, if in different places.

She pats the wall where the door to the bar was, and returns to the courtyard.

She sets two of the empty bottles on the stone rim of the fountain, between the alleyway and the gameboard. 

She adds a shard of amber glass between them, pointing off towards the former bar.

A quarter turn around the fountain, towards the alleyway to the books and the airy place and the waiting things, she lays a shard of deep purple glass. 

At the third point, opposing the waiting things, she lays a sky-blue shard.

The fourth point, across from the former bar... she leaves that point empty for now. 

She looks at the empty gameboard. She counts the squares, across and down.

Eight-by-eight, dark purple-black squares alternating with pale blue ones the color of a sky at twilight. A chess board, then, or perhaps something for checkers.

She takes a deep breath. 

From beneath her clothes, she takes out a silver-wire pendant, coloured beads forming three hinges inside it. She folds it carefully, out, then in, then out again. At first it was a flat circle with simple arcs surrounding, like a child's drawing of a flower: now the wires bind together in the centre, forming an hourglass the length of her finger.

She unwinds the simple black string from the wires. 

She sets the hourglass in the bottom row, on the second sky-blue square from the left. 

She goes to the alchemist's lab. She selects a clear, flat-bottomed vial. She squeezes her cut finger until the blood wells up and drips into the bottom, deep scarlet.

She stoppers the vial. She carries it to the chess board. She sets it down across from the pendant, in the opposing purple-black square. 

She goes to the once-bar, and takes one of the shards of bloody red glass. Any other time, she would be foolhardy to use bare hands - but with the promise of a battlefield, even this hungry glass can wait. 

She sets it down in the top-left corner, on the same row as the vial of her blood.

She goes...

Back to the bookplace. She can't leave this unbalanced, not now. 

She considers the paper flowers. She frowns at the piece of yet-to-be dress. She feels the smoothness of the coins on the bookshelf. 

She looks at the broken glasses again, and a sudden grin lights up her face.

She prises out the remaining lens, cups it in her hands, kisses it. She carries it to the board, and places it delicately in the square across from the jagged red shard.