Otter Creek And the book you write's magnificent

She is  (presumably)  forgiven for the faults she's thus presented herself with; but it is not until the wanderer before her speaks of the land of willows that the fragmented planes of her lune guise gentle; and it is the veils of solemnity, though not entirely dreary. Was he before her yet another drifting spectre of what had once been that place of Elysium? As the boy and his owlet had been? The fée has gone silent, for a spot of time; but now, she speaks once more:

"Elysium — yes, it still lies upon ze other flank of ze Sunspires. Ze earth's upheaval has not sundered it to its bowels, yet,"  a hesitation, but deliverer she must be nonetheless,  "not a soul lives there. Not, I think, those that remain, of course. I ... have began to pay my respects there, 'owever, when I may."  Snagged a tissued lip between a bit of fang; she did not wish to assume that he did  (or did not)  remember the paths that led to said willow-weald.

For now, she fell into quietude once more.