2
Outside, the Gloaming reigned still in a state of high glee. The sky was indigo, the clouds were silver, and everywhere was mist and starlight. Margot felt the pulse of magic as soon as her bare feet touched the road: a strong current streaming over the vale, and coming from Landricourt.
There had always been an atmosphere of possibility, of expectation, about the Gloaming: plants stretched out their leaves, lifted their flower-heads to the skies, and grew with frenetic energy; the winds turned cool and warm by turns, snatches of lost melodies swept along with them; it rained, sometimes, out of clear, dark skies, a display presided over by the bright moon and the muted sun all at once. Things were different, when the Gloaming came in.
But this was different again. Margot scarcely rec
