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.

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.