But no other sky would hang above them with the cold floating weight of sadness as this one did⁠—a weight like a mass of grey seaweed beneath a silent sea. No other sky would be cold enough and motionless enough to actually listen to the rising of the green sap within them, that infinitesimal flowing, flowing, flowing, that for nonhuman ears must have made strange low gurglings and susurrations all day long.

At last they came to the bank of the river Lunt.

“Hush!” whispered Gerda. “Don’t make a noise! It’s so lovely when you can make a water-rat flop in and see it swim across.”