Harrow does not laugh, as such, very much. What she does now is not quite a laugh, instead it's an astonished and thrilled huff of breath. They are doing it, worrying at some boundary of magic she didn't even know existed until she came here, and now she is peering through that crack in the wall; and there is someone looking back.

"Can we add another? Or replace it? I think I may have the hang of it." Blood-sweat is forming on her brow, but she doesn't notice. "It's..." She licks her dry lips.

"Think not of the death of fire, but death mediated by fire. The purifying embrace of flame, carrying the dead beyond."

"I think I can do Earth. Earth should be--easy." She bares her teeth behind the veil.