It's just out of reach. Even on her toes, arm stretching: reach, reach, reach, it's too far; the brass hook that holds her window closed is still too high. Anna considers this, hands planted firmly on her hips, toe tapping, giving it a look – if she can just get the latch open, she's pretty sure it'll be no problem to reach the enormous English yew just beyond.
The branches are sprawling, fingers creeping shade over the garden below, curling toward her west facing window and over the castle gates to the south. Can anyone blame her, come on really; putting her here in this room with the tree whispering to her at night – it's practically an invitation, a challenge.
Anna squints against the afternoon sunshine, and her toe taps a little faster against the wood floor. Maybe if she stacks up her books…