That question flattens Erin's ears against her head. Her gunpowder haze hesitates, flickers; its joyful pops slow as it almost seems to scatter...
Her voice is hard, and low: "You'll find it on the third side of every door, and behind every mirror. Under the arches of the trees it is, and under the hills; it's in the reflection of the stars on a still pond, it's there at a grave on nights with the moon. The Hedge, the labyrinth, the Thorns, the briars, the winding paths and fetid swamps, it's there, just out of reach, waiting for you to touch, and through maze and moor and monstrosity and horror are the Glass Gates, and behind them, the Fairest of Lands."
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Her voice is hard, and low: "You'll find it on the third side of every door, and behind every mirror. Under the arches of the trees it is, and under the hills; it's in the reflection of the stars on a still pond, it's there at a grave on nights with the moon. The Hedge, the labyrinth, the Thorns, the briars, the winding paths and fetid swamps, it's there, just out of reach, waiting for you to touch, and through maze and moor and monstrosity and horror are the Glass Gates, and behind them, the Fairest of Lands."
"I've been to a few worlds."