[snapshot]
The trouble with feather-borne crackplots, of course, is that feathers get everywhere, blown on the lightest breeze, even when they're not carried awhile in the pockets of unsuspecting children.
So he stands under the fringe of the trees, frowning down at the Mansion grounds: a black-haired boy about ten, small, graceful (for a ten-year-old), sharp-eyed; his clothes are good, if grubby and distinctly old-fashioned. He holds to the trunk of a silver birch with one arm, and rocks on bare toes, indecisive.
So he stands under the fringe of the trees, frowning down at the Mansion grounds: a black-haired boy about ten, small, graceful (for a ten-year-old), sharp-eyed; his clothes are good, if grubby and distinctly old-fashioned. He holds to the trunk of a silver birch with one arm, and rocks on bare toes, indecisive.