Caspian, looking past the birch-woman to the willow tree tucked at the stream's edge, could almost swear he saw something moving in the green shadows past the garden: a tawny flash there and gone again.

He doesn't mention it, and turns his attention back to the others. The birch-woman sways in the breeze, comforting. Once we were more, she murmurs. But it will be enough. You are safe here, little sapling. You are welcome here. Let the stream cleanse you. Let the breeze soothe you. We are accustomed to troubles.