Inside it was dry and toasty warm and the Old Thing couldn’t imagine why it had been sitting alone in the rain and mud for such a time. Just then the kitchen door swung open and there were toast and tea and blackberry marmalade on a pewter tray in the midst of an ancient oak table. Encircling the table a carved bas relief seemed to twist and dance in the fire light, unfolding a tale that changed from beginning to end even as it was told.
Nor can I.