(no subject)

It's full spring, even in Scotland. Or pseudo-Scotland, as the case may be. The grass is a thick green mat, and the last of the chilly mud has faded into good loam. The trees are in bud and in flower, and everywhere the air smells of growth.

River is curled beside a fencepost of the farthest paddock, watching Boukephalos strut with high flagged tail around a disinterested Corella. Her fingers shift lightly against grass and her skirt, and her face is abstracted in thought.