Feyberry--opps, Fęyberry--danced and skipped around the party, amazed at how the remembrances of the Downs were recalled in so many different ways. Circus acts, pools, locked doors, magic screens and talking keyboards. Were people succumbing to a memory of a memory of a perfect time in the past? What was it davem had said? If only she could remember. Something about 'arousing the memory of a memory of some place not of this world.' She shook her head.
And that idea about Tom! Tom a werewolf! Why, the very thought of it was so, so wargish! It belonged on Eomer's thread at least. In her mind Fęyberry composed some fleeting rhyme for consideration there.
"Tom, Tom,
He's nobody's son.
Stole a lilypad lady
and away he run."
But finally Fęyberry had tired and come to lean against the outer wall which still encircled Edoras, even in these enlightened times. She stared at the empty glass by her side, which had been so thoughtfully provided by Estelyn--opps, Čstęl˙n. It was empty now. Fęyberry rolled the glass around in her hand thoughtfully, trying to see if any small drops remained that could catch the Light of the Two Twees. If she could catch them, capture them, maybe she could ensure that the Downs would not again be locked against its faithful wraiths. But alas all that the impish creature could spy was dust. Dust? Dust! There were dust mites clinging to the edges of the glass! Had Čstęl˙n brought in dust from another story? What dark materials had our seamstress brought in to us when she stepped between the worlds of pool and time?
Would dust be settling on the Barrows? Would there be a momumental battle between warring views of , well, the primary world, if not subcreation? Posts only could tell. . .
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