A stiff breeze sent the smaller branches of the eucalyptus trees waving, their slender leaves seeming to flow and sparkle in the evening sunshine. The wattle trees among them were heavy with soft yellow pompom flowers. Honeyeaters darted among them, squawking at each other. High in the eucalypts, three sulphur-crested cockatoos swooped in to land, then called raucously, flipping up their crests and stomping along the branches as they settled.
Argyve sat on a bench in a sheltered spot in Sheldrake’s front garden, drawing contentedly on his old briar wood pipe, while he contemplated the marvellous fact that here in Carrador, one wattle tree or another would be in flower at every time in the year. He turned his head as a young boy trundled a wheelbarrow around the corner of the stables, prop
