Lifts, in Ellis' experience, are wood and rope. They creak and grind their way downwards and upwards, in and out of darkness, in and out of the earth itself.

The sensation of rising is disorienting in and of itself. The accompanying view—

Wysteria's scramble forward startles Ellis out of his corner, a hasty grab for her elbow as the elevator soars smoothly upwards. When it becomes apparent that the glass is not going to give way under the press of her palm, Ellis' grip relaxes by degrees. Remains as he peers downwards as well, expression inscrutable.

They are very high up, and the lift is still ascending.