I stumbled along through the young pines and huckleberry bushes. Pretty soon I struck into a sort of path that, I cal'lated, might lead to the road I was hunting for. It twisted and turned, and, the first thing I knew, made a sudden bend around a bunch of bayberry scrub and opened out into a big clear space like a lawn.

Sabina brazened it out before Mrs. Wygram; but inwardly she was resolved to be a good deal more circumspect.

One of my oldest informants, adagio, confirms this in an e-mail interview and admits to sometimes feeling as if fandom is deviating too far from the story told on the show: I don‘t really see the point when the names is all that‘s left. I don‘t get things like fawnlock or tunalock at all, but I guess it‘s amusing. … Sometimes I think the internet has made it too easy to publish stories.

They came in among earth-moving machines, a total absence of trees, the usual hieratic geometry, and eventually, shimmying for the sand roads, down in a helix to a sculptured body of water named Lake Inverarity.