Two hands pull the tweed coat over her, till they are sure she sleeps. She does.
Then the triangle shadow resumes his post at the head of her, to vigil again. Like a blackbird.
But first, he reaches over his charge and slips the golden acorn under her head, for sweet dreams, combing out her long white locks so they spread like poured cream across the white ground.
His shirt is folded under her white hair, wrapped with his red suspenders; it makes a comfy pillow.
“And now, Alice, for our first lesson,” he says, settling down into the sand his seat, “I shall tell you of four girls who sought a bird’s nest…”