Bahorel laughs, in amusement and approval. "You may be right about yourself, at that. A writer, in a place visited by escapees from stories--oh, it's not just us, if bloody Father Christmas and fairies are running around, it's certainly not just us---who knows? Maybe Mlle. Marguerite is here to keep an eye on you for the gods' sake."

It's an amusing idea, and not an entirely idle one. Stories and poetry had weight back in their Paris; it might be a force on another level, here.