Erin sighs. "I'm not spending my time here trying to explain the situation I'm actually still stuck in, right now. But."

(Here's hoping this works.)

And Mirrors, the lies of the living world, sayeth: Bitch what kind of show do you think I'm running here? Of course it works.

Erin holds out her left arm, palm up, so the other two women can see. Before their eyes it ripples, turning into living wood with joints of clockwork in which seeds rumble and tumble. Her palm sprouts, and then blooms; a wide red rose, vibrant and bright.

With her human hand, Erin touches the crab pin over her heart.