Missing Friends
The Lady dances alone in the grove, a sad little waltz with a thick sheaf of papers held out in lieu of a proper partner. Her lips smile gently, but her eyes are sad. A few pages fall, and you can just glimpse that they are public letters, signed “Doctor Darien Mason, in exile”, before they blow away.
She sits down on the grass, the dark skirts of her nightdress billowing around her, produces quill and inkpot from nowhere, and begins to write rather ramblingly on the back of the partner-pages:
