But it’s still a stupidly long walk, and now that Des and I have five billion guards hemming us in, our conversation is next to nonexistent. To be fair, I have been entertained. Des has spent most of the past hour plaiting one guard’s hair into at least fifty braids—he hasn’t yet noticed—and moving branches into another guard’s way. “Motherfucking trees,” the fairy mutters under his breath. “I swear they’re moving in my way.” “Lay off the spirits, Sythus,” another says.
