The next day Rosamond again set up her easel next to the old yew, thinking to try for some more tree drawings, but something troubled her, something to do with Damen and this place and his enthusiasm for the strange work she had so far produced. Such was the confusion in her mind that it wasn’t until she’d carefully attached a pen to the yews most outstretched branch and positioned the easel so that the pen touched the sheet of paper pinned to it, that she realised there was no wind. Without wind, of course, the branch wouldn’t move, and the tree wouldn’t ‘draw’. Cursing herself for not realising this sooner, she left the easel in place — thinking: no point dismantling the whole set up now — and decided to take a walk around the wood to clear her mind. Though the sky was overcast, the
