Getting there!
The White House was not a museum. And, obviously, it was not a ruin, either. But astoundingly, it was their destination.
The coach pulled up to the North Lawn entrance; two full rows of people in incredibly archaic clothing were already assembled to meet him. And from what President Whitman could see, they were remarkably eager to meet him, too. But that wasn’t the astounding part.
The astounding part was that the White House was lit up, and by electricity. Candles flickered, oil smoked, and magestones felt like it was directly imposed on your eyes; only incandescent bulbs could produce such a stable and natural-looking light. But they were so, so rare. Even places like the Virginian Royal Palace or his own Sprague House had to make do with lightstones or lamp oil. It wasn’t just the expense; the mages that ruled the center of the continent loathed the technologies of the Old Americans, and while they hated gunpowder most of all electricity was also high up on their list. For the White house to be illuminated like this was, in its way, an act of defiance.
Enoch Whitman decided that he approved.