She came to what had used to be Blackman Hogback's house, and it was now a broad parkland, grassed and flowered, with arbours and fountains and people strolling, and an Eelsister conversing over the convent hedge with one of the rosy ladies. Timorously, Liga went across the lawn - which should be walled, should be Hogback's mansion, guarded by Hogback's servants. A climbing rose clung to the lattice, bursting with pink and white blossoms, and she sniffed a flower and she felt the smooth petals between her fingers and she watched a bee fill its pannier-baskets with pollen, and everything was real, scented and textured as it ought to be - thorned, too: she might easily prick her finger to bleeding with that thorn if she wanted to prove how real.