She sighed, trying to put the questions out of her mind, levitating a book down from the shelves. It was an old book, full of tales even she was familiar with when she had been still a filly. They had changed over time, but she still enjoyed the old fairytales ponies told, such as the Wheel in the Orchard, or the saga of Ironheart, or the Enchantress in Glass. The latter was a strange, vague tale that recounted a strange magician from another world. She enjoyed that one but couldn't for the life of her understand why. It was short, little more than a lengthy poem, and she certainly hadn't read it when she was younger, but it felt familiar somehow. Like an old friend or a worn book by your bedside you read and reread again for the simple pleasure of it.