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.
For that is what the land around them most resem-
bled. They stood at the crossing of two narrow, shiny
black streets that looked and smelled remarkably like
anise licorice. Neat little houses of golden brown with
scrolling, white trim -- iced gingerbread? -- were set at
regular intervals along the streets. Every house was
identically landscaped with multicolored gumdrop
bushes, lollipop trees, nut-cookie sidewalks, and all-
day-sucker flowers. Everything was in perfect kender
scale.
Though there was plenty of light, there was no sun --
no sky, for that matter, just a swirling mass of pastel
mists that formed a ceiling of sorts over the strange
landscape. It was as if the town had, in fact, been con-
structed in a box.
Trapspringer and Damaris spun about, their excite-
ment growing.
"Can it be real?" she breathed.
"Only one way to find out!" Trapspringer said
brightly. He led them to a small, pink-and-white striped
bush and broke off a crunchy leaf. Snap! He popped it
in his mouth. "Strawberry and vanilla taffy!" he pro-
claimed, snapping off another piece for her.
"Harkul Gelfig, what do you mean, eating my bush?"
an angry voice called from the depths of the nearest
house. Trapspringer and Damaris jumped back guiltily.
"Why, you're not Gelfig!" The man peered through a
little grate in his taffy front door. The door swung open
and a heavy-set kender waddled down the cookie walk.
"The name's Trapspringer Furrfoot, not Gelfig What-
ever-you-said," Trapspringer said pleasantly
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