It's a
beautiful spring morning. Robert isn't sure how he knows this, but
he is absolutely certain that it is morning, and it is spring.
“In the
Weave, navigation is imagination,” he mutters, half remembering
something. “Where did that come from?” he asks looking round, as
if someone else might have spoken for him.
In the
distance he can see the edge of a wood. He's about to set off in
that direction when a sudden breeze ruffles his hair and he's sure he
can hear faint traces of children's laughter. He turns and turns,
scrutinizing every direction for signs of life, but there's nobody
there.
