Pages flutter as we twirl. Our dresses dissolve into a literary abyss; rows and rows of silk scorched by Dickens and flounced by Keats and critically examined by Plath. A castle built of words: a castle built of recollections, I whisper, grounded on the fancies of tap-dancers who will not accredit, poets who will not write. Pan is lost in there somewhere, but the Inquisition will only allow daughters of heathenish Woodcutters to be Finders (and if, and only if, you were so lucky to be an exiled princess: a Searcher). If I am allowed to love, it will be very tragic and very Estella.