"Dalibor!" A young girl's shrill voice was heard in the street, mingling with the coins that the gypsies shook. "Dalibor, you're running too fast! Where are we going?" Another laugh, another stumbling jolt of energy as her miniature fingers gripped to the shoulder of his soiled vest.

"I already told you, Lída; it's supposed to be a surprise," his saucer eyes glinted with a mischievous flicker, dazzling the chocolate colour to an orange. The peasant boy ran ahead quickly, leaving Lída behind to follow at a hastened pace.

"This better be a good one," she shouted towards him, chasing his shadow and the filthy scent that clung to his garments. The city streets and festivals began fading into the distance behind the two children, the sounds of the town wavering above Lída's shoulder.

The ground began to dampen; the shadows of the forest knotted with the shadows of Dalibor's fast-moving feet and the scent that he possessed began deliquescing into an entirely different scent of mildew.

Lída gasped as her small slipper sunk into the wet sand of the approaching bog. "Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Sure?" Dalibor laughed, stroking the mop of dark hair back from his perspiring forehead, "Of course I'm sure," he stopped, waiting for Lída to match his distance in the fen, "have you ever known me to be wrong?" He put his elbow on her shoulder, resting there egotistically, taking a lock of her blonde hair in his fingers and twiddling it.

"Plenty of times," she stared at him, pulling her curls together in a clump on the other side, taking the wave from Dalibor's hand.

"Well I'm not wrong this time." He straightened his vest and continued walking, dodging every hole and membrane of the peat. "Don't forget your shoe, Lída."

"I won't," she sneered, making a face behind his back as wiped the heel of her shoe clean with the shawl around her shoulders.