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New Year, a whisker in, and Wolf was watching the storm from the calm comfort of the Drawing Room. Pine Marten had gone to bed, and Babcia and Old Fox were drinking brandy and talking about the Chelsea Arts Ball at the Albert Hall. Old Fox thought Ermine might have gone - "She helped to paint some of the scenery for the New Year party once, with Frank Brangwyn, I think." But Wolf wasn't listening, the outside was too exciting. For there, in the star-furrowed darkness, in the rural depths of Dorset, the pass of years was a battle raging in the very air. Racing, harrowed clouds, the wind whewling in the trees, a low boom of muffled fireworks in the distance and the months and days and hours gathering ahead, like actors nervous and excited in a green room, as their stage is heaved into being.