A brief shadow drifts across the dark eyes. Wings of wax, worn by a young man who flew too high and was burned by the sun. Icarus, she recalls, had drowned in the sea when he fell.

Neither she nor River had drowned, in the end. If one cannot fly, then perhaps one can learn to swim.

"It is, here at least-- and spring, and growing warmer." One graceful gesture indicates the lake, River's willow, and the expanses between and beyond. "It is pleasant to walk out here sometimes, I find."

And important to not only walk in dreams, she thinks, very clearly.

A pause. "Do you mind my company? I am not disturbing you, I may hope?"