Rising up, surrounded by leaves, pale in moonlight, bramble and twig snagging her cardigan, she stood staring gape mouthed at fireflies of cinder blowing in through the hazy light. Her chest swelled with a held breath, fingers dropping the foraged petals that she had been plucking, petals of fortune, will she go back to town and find a present for the Norseman (probably in the form of a stolen apple...) or won't she, will she find that white kitten and take care of it or won't she, the decisions a child makes, important in the scheme of their giant, limitless world.

She ducks around the shrubs and wanders along the open stretch of tar, her skirt blowing about her, ruffled collar bending to touch the throat as the wind took over, blowing hair about jaw and forehead, dizzy she was with wonder at the sight and the sensation, open in the darkness, a windswept, vital moment in a childs notion of time, when there was so much to do, and so standing there, like the days had all ran into one another, she felt a hurricane of suspense tear through her.

Smiling crookedly, she hurried towards where the sound had risen from, boots thumping softly along the road as she darted out of the cubbyholes of abandoned buildings of which grew grass and small trees, like shambled greenhouses, making her way as fast as her little legs could take her, her heart pounding with excitement, an urchins curiosity awakened with the view of a fiery distance.