Lucy is like a young Queen, straight from one of her historical novels. Kind, still, steady, her dark hair in waves to her waist. She thinks of duty and acts with solicitude. Sometimes she is timid and longs for a quiet room, a place away from the world. She is at home in silence with her pencils and pens, with worlds appearing from the nothing of the paper, in colour, detail.
Arwen is our leaven, light with words and quick with wit. Our competitor, our girl on a quest. Light on her feet as well, a dancer, one eye on the audience, the other on the dance, an acrobat, our everything. She wears her costume, her camoflage - jeggings, gloss, a purple flower in her hair - she's my girl of the moment. She shines. She dreams of London. She wants to be away. Somehow away but here, somehow in my arms and not, at the same time.
Snowy's real name means comfort and rest. He is always moving, always speaking and in the sphere of his love and his action I find it. My comfort and my rest. He is from another century than mine, he is rapid, he is technological, he is like a heart beating inside a sculpture of golden wires. He is my arms around him and love whispering.