Have you ever been in a large forest and seen a strange black tarn hidden deep among the tall trees? It looks bewitched and a little frightening. All is still—fir trees and pines huddle close and silent on all sides. Sometimes the trees bend cautiously and shyly over the water as if they are wondering what may be hidden in the dark depths. There is another forest growing in the water, and it, too, is full of wonder and stillness. Strangest of all, never have the two forests been able to speak to each other.

By the edge of the pool and out in the water are soft tussocks covered with brown bear moss and wooly white cottongrass. All is so quiet—not a sound, not a flutter of life, not a trembling breath—all of nature seems to be holding its breath listening, listening with beating heart: soon, soon.

From goldenstone the shy sun fills the vale with swathes of light and the mistle thrush, her song catches in my throat for it is all as the words climbed aloft and made true. Some things are real my loves, some things are real.

Over beacon hill, draped in oak and beech with squirrels in every bole and my shadow caught in the Devil’s grave. Onwards and upwards, for I must find the iron gates and whisper ‘Emalagra’ and if they will not open there is Holy well and copper pennies, bright as stars.

Fallen logs are dragons here, it is their right, and none climb the hill after dark. An elfmade wall holds back the rhodendrons and the Morthbrood, and Her. I am often alone, up on Saddlebole with a touch of fear in my toes and the Wizard warns me not to drink the water. This is the Edge.

My sister is in love with a bear. He comes every night to our house, through the snow which he tracks in, big muddy footprints on the rug. We sit by the fireside, Maman and Snow and the Bear and I. The light flickers in her eyes and turns her cheeks sweet pink. Maman says we must be nice to the bear, and I try to see beyond his ivory teeth.
The nights are cold, and we huddle together in the one small bed, as always. Whispering secrets, telling tales, my sister and I. Now she only speaks of the bear, “Do you think he’ll come again?” she asks. I roll over and shut my eyes tight.
In the summer he will be gone, I’m sure, and we will return to the woods to pick acorns and apples and hunt for mushrooms in the loam. Just the two of us. We will find the deer grazing in the meadow and the hare, to feed him cabbage leaves. At night we will lay down on the moss and the star child will watch over us, as always.
My sister is in love with the bear, but he always looks hungry to me.

“I don’t believe in coincidence.” Rose said “it’s messy and meaningless, a cosmic excuse for anything too difficult to explain.” She bit the blade of grass in half, savouring the bittergreen flavour.
“Then what do you call it,” asked the red haired boy “if it isn’t just an accident?” He liked the way the sun fringed her eyelashes, which were unusually pale and long. If he could he wanted to keep this conversation going forever, just the two of them on the bridge, but the sun would set eventually.
“Magic!” she whispered, with a frightening intensity. “I believe in Magic, and Fate and golden apples and Hades and unicorns in the glen.” She looked at him, waiting for a response. He didn’t laugh, instead he tossed his leaf in to the stream and watched it drift lazily beneath them and out of sight.

It’s fire outside, and I’m bottled up in a glass jar, all windows. A little greenhouse. So I close the curtains and lie down on the cool, calm floor. Books flap about me on paper wings, insects in fine print, dizzying. Restless, I pace the room and my toes stick to the wood boards. The burnt light leaking through the blinds makes me melt like chocolate.

Today was washing on the line and the chance of rain and houndstooth skirts and crunchy apples and curling up on the grass beneath the Jacaranda tree in a small pile of blankets to read.

I have a secret love for Spiderwick. It reminds me to look for Stray Sods on our lawn and inspect patches of red clover and leave a little warm milk with honey and bread in the old shell at the bottom of the garden.

Meg, wearing mackintosh boots and a red mackintosh, and with a red sou’wester tied beneath her chin, splashed down the drive, and under dripping oak-trees, in a state of happiness deeper and more perfect than any other she was likely to know while she lived in this world. Elizabeth Goudge

I need a new pair of mackintosh boots (we call them Wellingtons) for puddle jumping. However I have two old books and a jar with a cork lid in which I am going to plant a fairy garden to keep on my mantlepiece.

Claire-fairy is coming over today to eat candy and buttered popcorn and Steph-cookies and watch movies inside on the couch while it rains outside (if the weather will make up its mind that is.)

I want to be a little paper doll and live in my paper house and wear paper clothes with the white tabs for fit. Everything would be neat and light and bright with the smiles drawn on and the beds always made. I would be a little worried about the rain though.

I like reading in the bath, its not a good idea really but its oh-so comfortable and otherwise I fall asleep and I’m slightly afraid of drowning. Picture books are best, you can only get through a few chapters of a novel before the water starts to get cold and your fingers and toes shrivel like prunes. My skin is so pink afterwards, with a rosey glow like a baby.