Sometimes Home is like the sinking of a slow warm quick sand, so slow and warm that one can watch oneself absorb into the old memories, good and bad, becoming once again nothing more or less than Eldest Child. Such an easy sink and the panic in the breast easily ignored.
We have an 8 foot glimmering tree, perfect for hiding behind with a book. Last night Rian sat beneath it with Keppet's Profit. There is irony in that, I think.

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