“You!” said Ann Veronica. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. We have so much to be thankful for. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom.
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