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She runs down the hill and back to the house, pulling her boots off.

Searching, searching – and then she finds a scrap of paper, finds pens, and begins to draw out a map. What is like what? Where are the patterns?

Her mind flickers, synapses flicking on and off, switches and pathways humming as she works. Soon she reaches the extent of her scrap of paper, frowns, and scribbles out her work. The bewildered squire (and when is he not bewildered by the little girl he is supposed to be looking after?) is quickly relieved of yet more paper as she draws out thoughts, spiralling onwards.

Trees - trees are a group. But what do they split into? What the wood is used for? Their types of leaves? Their heights?

She ponders for a moment, then rolls up the paper, sits down and laughs at a small songbird frantically trying to peck away at the snow. She is still a child for now, after all.

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Saturdeve win 

FOUR SOTKS

cinnamon

spice

hag

Tis I indeed.

Uh... SOTK?

Tis me, indeed!

Seamstress?

warrior

"Also, how car baby?"

"Canonically, it is implied that car sex is a real thing."

"The question of Thomas The Tank Engine has been raised, so I feel I have to interject here."

"I still don't think that ducks are data."

moon

smoke

ball

[Sin-catcher]

Sin-catcher

Sing high, you little lost wind,
Sing high where the treetops blow:
And take from us our losses,
Our memories and sadnesses,
And scatter them where finches fly
Where swirls the cloudless air.

Sing high, you little lost wind,
Sing high where the birds ascend,
And lift the ways we cannot seem,
Far from our being, thought and dream,
And set light to them, moon and sun,
Til all is light and all are gone.

Sing high, you little lost wind,
Sing high where the air is thin,
Where all our breaths escape and soar,
Our lips grow cold and lie no more,
So scattered where the cloud-wisps stray,
Our lives and sins, wind, cast away.