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doorways calling you to come in, through the bats shrilling among the black lace trees. This is Everysummer decked in all its best glory. Picture an orderly little maze of houses on a hill, only a few miles from Dublin. Someday, the government declared, this will be a buzzing marvel of suburban vitality, a plan-perfect solution to overcrowding and
wrist seize between the stones, and at dawn rabbits bring their kittens out from the foundations to play on ancient graves. These three children own the summer. They know the wood as surely as they know the microlandscapes of their own grazed knees; put them down blindfolded in any dell or clearing and they could find their way out without putting a foot wrong. This is their
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