“Reynaud's visit had made me want to go and see my wood again. I like saying that. My wood. My strawberry clearing. My path. My trees. My fence. My wishing well. Those things are mine now, Reynaud said. Not Roux's, not Maman's, but mine. Mine to do what I like in. Sometimes all I want to do is be alone; to sing, to shout, to run about, to talk to myself in my shadow-voice. And now I can do that whenever I want. The wood, the clearing, and the well- they are all mine to play with. I am no longer a trespasser. I am the guardian of a sacred place.”