Three or four metres of rubble and stone that had once been a garden. The house behind, square and ancient. A wind that never stopped blowing up from the edge where the once-garden ended. Not the edge of a cliff, but the edge of the world and a drop so huge, so heart stopping, so blue, that to tumble into its immensity would be like falling into sky.
Not a place in which to lose your temper then. To fling shoes and books angrily from some wind filled window. Not a place to march out of, slamming the door, shouting, calling to your dismal, useless, uncomprehending relations that you were never coming back.
Unless you never were coming back.
The shoes quickly crumbled into the shadows of shoes, but the books held together until their pages came loose. The wind picked them up, flattened them, and flung them against the wall of the house. They plastered themselves against the stone and remained readable for a long time. Gabby and Zack peeled them off, carried them inside, and spent a long time puzzling over the thin faded print.
"They're about dragons or something," said Gabby at last.