And suddenly I felt the road above me. It had a current like a river, and as the current of a river stirs the air to wind over it, so did the road. It was a wind not of winter cold, but of lives, both distant and near. The Fool’s strange essence floated on it, and Kettle’s closemouthed fear and Kettricken’s sad determination. They were as separate and recognizable as the bouquets of different wines.
