In dreams.
It is a small place, often overlooked. It is tucked into a shady glen, hidden from passing view by thorns and quicksand and trees, and by the sharp, slimy monsters that live in the mire. Sharp eyes, sharp claws, sharp teeth.
In the enchanted forest sits a little house. Sometimes it is made of heavy ageless oak, sometimes of rough gray magical stone, sometimes of simple red brick with off-white shutters. Sometimes the windows are covered by green moss, sometimes by scented waterfalls, sometimes by muslin curtains carefully edged with evenly-stitched lace.
Inside, there is always a cozy little room with a comfortable chair. It is always soft, sometimes red, sometimes wooden, sometimes cushioned. Sometimes there is also a wee table, spread for tea on a checkered tablecloth.
Sometimes there is company: golden-haired cherubim, silk-soft kittens, maybe even an old battered doll named Edith. When company arrives, there are of course more chairs in the little room. Sometimes there is even a cozy fireplace, burning a perfectly-sized log with red and gold flames.
Getting to the little house in the forest is not difficult. Mother Moon lights the way, and all Dru must do is follow her silvery path.