Dear N.W.

You will be pleased to hear that there are still a family of rabbits in her garden, they are living beneath the roots of an old tree which has grown so as to bend the garden gate. The wysteria keeps the bees company and of course I am sitting on your bench as I write this. You may not think it your bench, for you were never here yourself, but I assure you there are memories trapped in the woodgrain. I could not find the mouse palace, but there was of course the doll’s house and the tiny puddings. You would have loved this house dear N. I can’t really be sure but I think that is why she chose it. I imagine she buried the ring in the garden here, in a secret spot. I hope you have found her now, because the fire burns so merrily in the grate.

With fondness,

S.

She was not sure if it was the stone, or some fey quality of the light but everything was golden. Gilt lamposts and the crown of Isis, molten in the canals and all the birds sung like wire nightingales from the towers. Did they have to wind them up? She wondered. Faces peered from cornerpieces, faces with tusks and horns and dainty claws, but she was not frightened, she knew who they were meant to keep out. From Hamelin she came, following the sound of a flute which led to a curly haired boy, but he dissapeared. Fauns in the gardens, robins on fences and croquet in the meadows. Evensong and bells that shook the stones themselves. Bicycles clattered over cobblestones as the wind made raven wings of scholar’s robes and she lost her way, looking for sighs. These pages were old and yellowed, they crackled underfoot, muffled by the dust.

Seventeen hours in cloud land, then on to yesterday. I doze through the daylight with stories whispered in my ears and then, only then, does the journey begin. Read. The chapter opens with one Lost Princess, looking for ancient kingdoms revealed to her twelve year old self in the stained pages of second hand books. Following crumpled maps from Radnor Mere to Kanchenjunga and over Paradise Hill to the bay where the evening primroses grow. Two miles for each page, she walks through a land made of books, a kingdom dressed in stories, but will she find her inkworld? Her heart is made of words, words and ink, afterall.

I will be back in a month, dearhearts.

Maman is back. We picked her up yesterday with a big bunch of yellow daisies to apologise for the weather. This morning I saw an owl, she was up late, silently winging home like an errant ghost. I was in the burnt woods. A fire went through here a year ago and the green is only starting to come back. There are broken bits of wall and piping. Its a good place to play.