These are sunny days. They sit arranged around the teacups, teapot centre, cakes to eat in this glade of leaves and glitter;she wants her fairy-friends to show up but her visitor’s here, laughing with her brothers. Her shoes shine white as bone china under the table,small grass stains on one heel. Father’s absent, feeding his chickens, but her favourite dog sits up next to her, eying the sandwiches. I know he likes me, but how much? she writes on the flysheet of her latest Walter Scott, in shorthand.