"All stories," Merlyn says sagely, "contain a grain of truth. They are, after all, the lens through which we see the world. As for wizards..." He shakes his head, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his pocket. "In my time, we were as common as any other profession. Of course, some were hedge wizards, or witches who sank into ignominy as village wise women. And those who practice black magic, well, the less said of them the better. It was around the sixteenth century, I think, that most of them must have disappeared. Of course, I wouldn't know, since I was underground making friends with a rather charming family of moles at the time." He sighs quietly, stroking his beard. He doesn't miss the practitioners of the craft - some, like Madam Mim, he's positively glad to have rid of - but he misses having conversations about it, and people around him with whom to discuss the finer points.

"In any case," he says at last, dabbing at his eyes, "as you can see, I am quite real. Which is more than can be said for this place. I mean, I ask you! I don't expect total accuracy from such undereducated troglodytes, but Gothic arches, Saxon pillars, and Renaissance-style windows? Does nobody in this dratted world understand the basic principles of architectural history?"