FOURTEEN
The magic of the ancients, the magic of the winds.
Eleanor Garforth hummed as she skipped along the riverbank. Overhead, the sun was bright and high, sending brilliant sunlight dappling through the trees, rippling like liquid gold across the surface of the river, which burbled and babbled over wet-slick stones, polished like diamonds, sparkling and glittering with incandescent dazzle, jewel bright and lustrous.
She loved the river, loved its peace and tranquillity, needing its riverine restfulness and serenity. As much she loved her father and stepmother, and her brothers and elder sisters, the house in Victoria Street was always so noisy, with endless comings and goings, so many people, there was no space for solitude, no room for privacy and never time to think and so, whenev
