Under the trees in summer, it's all shadows. This time of year, there's bright sunlight, and mud, and buds just beginning to unfurl, from the finger bones of bare branches.
The green place, miraculous with grass and leaves, has burst out with flowers, white snowdrops and purple fairy slippers. The air is filled with the scent of warm earth.
I stayed there all night last night, listening to the singers. I can almost make out the words now.
Celia is wrong to be afraid, but I can't tell her that. She still wants to live in the world.